


To Cross the Plains of Ida

by CaptainR0cket



Series: Loki’s Monstrous Children [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Childbirth, F/M, Magic, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainR0cket/pseuds/CaptainR0cket
Summary: The People of the Iron Wood come to Asgard to renew an oath of fealty after the War for the Casket of Ancient Winters.  Angrboda, Voice of the Assembled, Witch of the Iron Wood, is offered an alliance that she believes will benefit the Iron Wood and unite all the peoples of Jotunheim.
Relationships: Angrboða | Angerboda & Loki (Norse Religion & Lore), Angrboða | Angerboda/Loki (Norse Religion & Lore)
Series: Loki’s Monstrous Children [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781284
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. The Council is Assembled

**Author's Note:**

> She is Angrboda, first of her name: Witch of the Iron Wood, Mother of Monsters, Harbinger of Grief. She is all of those things, and more. She sits at the end of the world and awaits her children and their father. She is all these things and more, and yet it was not always this way. 
> 
> Once, she was _young_.

Night falls, and the People of the Iron Wood gather in the Great Hall. Great signal fires beat against the frosty night; smoke rises, twisting and weaving its way toward the starry sky. Within the confines of the vaulted building the cold hangs on the skirts and cloaks of the women and melts in the beards of men. Infants are bundled and wrapped, strapped to the backs of their mothers, while their older brothers and sisters duck and weave through the crowd, intent on their games. Friends and relatives greet one another, the words they shout lost in the cacophony. 

A special night, reserved since ages past to frame the length of Jotunheim’s long, dark winters.

The People packed close together as laws were discussed, grievances made, and reparations were paid publicly to one another under sight of the Ruling Council of the People. Angrboda, Voice of the Assembled, Witch of the Iron Wood, sat in her chair at the Council Table and listened as the hours passed. Ulf, her kinsman and trusted adviser, sat at her elbow and listened more attentively. Firelight flickered from the Great Hearth and was swallowed by the lines drawn on his face, and his bright eyes glowed like two embers.

“People of the Iron Wood,” Ulf called, when at last all business was settled and the hall quieted. “The time comes to renew our fealty to Odin All-Father. We have been called to Asgard. Speak your piece.”

A quiet murmuring began. The idea of paying homage to the All-Father rankled. Ages had passed since the war with Asgard Generations of Jotnar had lived and died under the parameters laid out by the treaty, yet still there were Jotunn men and Jotunn women who would enthusiastically pick up the arms of their foremothers and forefathers to fight again. Ancient grief and never-ending hardship hung over the Iron Wood like smoke.

Angrboda sat and listened. _If the Builder’s Tool had not been lost… if the taxes levied on trade were not so steep… if the People were permitted to travel off-world…_ These were old arguments - old wounds that had healed poorly and were prone to blister and rot. The People had not been called to swear fealty in a generation; it was time, and past time, and would be noticed if they did not bow their heads and proffer their necks to their lord.

Holmvidr, an elder of the Northern clan, spoke. “You Easterners would have us be Asgard’s dogs, Ulf. You would roll over, as your brother Orm once did, and beg pardon for offenses not our own.”

The crowd murmured. Ulf sunk his chin against his chest, brow furrowed. “I would have us show patience. The War for the Builder’s Tool was not ours. It is not our way to involve ourselves in the affairs of others.”

A voice called from the crowd: “And yet we suffer for it! Where is Laufey? Where is Odin All-Father, when winter comes before the harvest and the fruit freezes on the tree?”

Sten, a builder of the Western clan and representative of his people, held up a massive hand. “If we do not swear now, Asgard will believe we have chosen to bind ourselves to the Frost Giants and refuse all aid. What assurances has Laufey made? What effort made to barter with us, to trade? What assistance comes from Laufey when marauders rise up and take what is most precious to us, or when winter comes too soon?”

Holmvidr bristled. “Laufey-King claims kinship with the Northern Clans. We prosper through our ties with Utgard. Laufey holds out the hand of friendship to the People of the Iron Wood. We need merely do the same.”

Maurr of the Southern clan, marked over with sigils and runes, made a sign to ward off evil and spoke. “We cannot hold out a strong hand of friendship to Laufey-King and suckle from Asgard at the same time. Too many have fought and died to allow us to rest easy in this.”

The crowd murmurred, and Angrboda and Holmvidr shared a glance. All peoples of the Iron Wood, regardless of clan or politics, were deeply spiritual. Change came slowly and was often hindered by superstition and fear.

“We must remember,” Ulf said gently, “that we risk the wrath of the All-Father if the Treaty is abandoned. We also risk the withdrawal of what favor he shows us. The millennium since the War has been hard for the Iron Wood. We are not yet powerful enough to stand alone.”

Holmvidr spoke quietly. “Make your decision, Speaker. What do the Elements show you? What do the People say?”

This was Angrboda’s part to play: to listen and to speak for all when the conversation, as it so often did, fractured along clan lines. “The People must survive,” she said. “I would have food enough for all of us, and work enough to do. Though we chafe and strain under the weight of it, we are granted these under Asgard’s care. Let us cross the Plains of Ida and stand before the throne of Odin All-Father, and claim what is ours under this Treaty. If,” she said and smiled so that all her even, sharp teeth shone bright in the torchlight, “the opportunity to sue for more should arise, then we will take with both hands.”

Trenchers of meat were laid out and wine was poured. The people would feast well, and drink, and fight. Old bonds would be renewed, new bonds formed; stories would be told and retold long into the endless night. These were the spoils of Laufey’s treaty with Asgard, and Angrboda had long been taught that she should be grateful enough for them.

Yet, in her waking dreams, her people prospered and flourished, strong in arm and in learning, and Odin All-Father and Laufey-King alike held out their hands in friendship.

Fires banked and burning low, the People slipped into corners. They lay across benches, and tables, and drowsed against carven screens. Made sleepy by too much food and drink, the People slept, and dreamed of a golden city, and the Iron Wood in bloom.


	2. Looking Toward Asgard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council prepares to leave Jotunheim for Asgard.

Angrboda slipped into the night, and a shadow separated itself from the darkness to follow.

“You spoke wisely tonight,” a voice said quietly. She smiled, and turned to face her oldest friend.

“I spoke as the people bade me to speak,” Angrboda responded, reciting the words she had been taught, and caught the little wrinkled apple tossed to her. “If I seem wise, then it is only because our people are wise. Hunvidr, did you wait all night?”

Her friend smiled and bit into his apple. “Only half the night,” he admitted, and then sobered. “Father seeks to unite with Utgard, Angrboda. Why do you oppose him?”

She laughed, and cuffed him playfully on the ear. “The Iron Wood is not mine to give,” she said. “The People are hesitant to trust Laufey, despite your father’s words. The Builder’s Tool was not his to claim. You know this.”

They continued on their way, matching one another’s stride with ease born of long practice. Hunvidr knocked his shoulder against Angrboda’s, and tugged at the antlers she wore until she relented and allowed them to collapse into sooty curls. “You do not trust red-eyed Laufey, who broods on his icy throne and eats Eastern children for breakfast?” he teased, and took another bite of his apple.

Angrboda snorted. “I told you that dream in confidence,” she replied, “when we were less than a century old. Be assured, Hunvidr Holmvidr-son, it does not affect my policy now.”

A noise came from behind a dimly-lit window, and they ducked easily into shadow, falling silent until they reached the outskirts of the village. “Have you spoken to your father?” Angrboda asked. “Does he accept your tribute? Are you coming to Asgard with us?”

Hunvidr clapped his hands against his chest, and raised them to the starlit sky. “Yes!” he roared, and skated away from Angrboda’s playful strike and attempts to quiet him. “I am going to Asgard! I will stand on the field of tourney and challenge their greatest warrior. I will be victorious and bring honor to my house and clan!”

“You are very drunk,” Angrboda observed solemnly.

Hunvidr ran a hand through his dark hair. “I am a _little_ drunk,” he admitted, and turned to look longingly into the dark forest. “Come and run with me.”

Angrboda laughed. “No,” she said. “You are drunk, and I am tired. You will forget that I am stronger than you are, and pick a fight, and I will be forced to _eat_ you.”

A dimple showed in his white cheek. “I am faster. You will not catch me.”

It was tempting, to forget the robes of office she wore, to slip into wolf-form and race the moon across the sky on the heels of her friend. A noise came from the village, a low song, and Angrboda turned to listen. “Ulf would have my head,” she sighed, when the strains of the song at last faded and died. 

Hunvidr sobered. “Ulf has forgotten what it means to be young,” he said fiercely. “You did not choose this life of ceremony and duty.”

“And yet it is my own,” Angrboda replied.

“He asks too much of you,” Hunvidr growled, and his dark eyes were anguished. “What if the ceremony does not go as planned? What if the All-Father is false, and locks away your magic like he did with the Builder’s Tool?”

Her own fears, given voice and whispered back to her on the wind. Angrboda made up her mind. “Then we will have had tonight, and the moon and stars, and the shadow-laden frost,” she said, and grinned wolfishly. “Let us enjoy it while we can.”

The women of the Eastern clan knew that Asgard would be warm and bright, and ill-suited to the heavy layers Jotunheim demanded. They prepared Angrboda accordingly. She felt under-dressed and vulnerable, though the garment had been lovingly made, with bands of embroidery stitched into the sleeves, collar, and hem.

Great copper-banded antlers born from magic sprouted from her head, a symbol of her house and status. The women dressed her hair loose about her shoulders, and hung tiny bells from the ends. _Here is our gift,_ they seemed to say as they sounded with each movement. _Here is Angrboda, beloved of the Elements. The People of the Iron Wood speak through her._

Ulf entered as the women finished painting over the clan lines on Angrboda’s face with oil and ocher. “Your hair is a misery, Angrboda,” he complained. “Your father went to Asgard with his hair shorn, and _blesóttr_ , so that when he knelt down before Odin All-Father his own reflection showed back at him.”

The women smiled. They knew well the tale of Orm’s statement in the face of imperialism.

“And what did the All-Father say about that?” Angrboda asked, and yawned.

Ulf regarded her solemnly. “He had the grace to say nothing,” he replied. “Your father respected the All-Father, but he wanted him to realize that the People of the Iron Wood still belong to themselves. He rules a reflection; a piece of what we are. He does not rule our hearts. Laufey does not rule our hearts. We belong to the Iron Woods.”

The man lowered his head, and his grizzled beard spread across his broad chest like moss on a tree. Runes and patterns lined his scalp: wards to protect against disaster, runes to attract fortune and wisdom, all inked into his skin long ago.

The women fell away, and Angrboda rose to greet him. “Do you trust me to protect our people? To speak for them?”

Ulf sniffled, and folded her hands in his. “I would not have taught you everything I know of statecraft if I thought you were going to throw it away,” he said roughly. “Your father’s art and power live on in you; I pray that together we have shaped them into something that will be of use to us all, my child.”

His beard was crisp when she reached up to tug at it. Moss, camphor, traces of licorice - this was Ulf. She drew in a breath, and he cackled delightedly when her nose wrinkled. “Your knee is bothering you,” she accused. “You stink like mergr root. Why did you not tell me? I would have eased your pain.”

Ulf traced a shape on her brow. “When their champion duels with you today, when they swallow your magic and hide it in the heart of Asgard,” he said, “I want them to see all of you. Spare none for old Ulf, Angrboda. Let them see what we have wrought.”

His voice was rough but affectionate, and his hand rested between her antlers for a moment in blessing. 

The women hovered in the background, finishing their preparations. Strict conventions bound the passing to Asgard. The four clans would have their representatives, and four warriors would accompany them. Angrboda would stand as a symbolic sacrifice, as her father had before her, and be the first Jotunn woman the Asgardians had seen since the Treaty had been signed. Her kinswomen, warriors and mages in their own rights, would stand in her place until she returned.

“What will it be like?” Angrboda asked.

“Asgard?”

“Yes.”

Ulf shook his head. “It is a terrible place,” he said. “Everything covered with gold, everything ordered. The citadel towers above all, great golden spires twisting toward the sky. You will be placed in a room as large as our hall, with great stone floors, and doors and windows as tall as the trees.” He chuckled a little. “I will be in a much smaller room, perhaps with Holmvidr or another of the elders for company. Arne and his men will barracks with the soldiers of Asgard.”

Angrboda laughed, and the bells in her hair tinkled. “I do not envy you, Ulf. I am certain the elders argue in their sleep.” She considered. “What does the council say?”

“I am to lead the negotiations with the Asgardian council. We will ask for a license to trade with Muspelheim, and to negotiate the tariffs that restrict our trade with Asgard. We will speak against some of the lesser items on the treaty, such as permission to travel off-world.”

“Is Holmvidr content? Will he press the issue of the Builder’s Tool?” Angrboda glanced at her kinswomen and spoke quietly, if fervently. “Ulf, it is rightfully ours.”

Ulf sighed. “Every family on Jotunheim believes that the Casket of Ancient Winters was originally theirs,” he said. “Laufey took it from the Stone Giants, who in turn took it from the Sea Giants, who swallowed it whole when they devoured the edge of the Iron Wood. And so the cycle goes, spiraling back into our history. Perhaps it is best left on Asgard. We cannot afford civil war. You must believe me when I say, child: that is not an argument for our time.”

They walked together into the empty hall, and Angrboda’s heart was troubled. Her father’s stay on Asgard had left him broken, with a habit of looking over his shoulder when the shadows lengthened.

“My father was not victorious when he fought Asgard’s champion,” she said quietly. 

Ulf nodded slowly. “There is never a victor,” he said. “It is a test - an opportunity for their sorcerer to evaluate your strength so that he will not use undue force when taking your magic.”

Anxiety prickled along her spine and turned her fingertips to ice. 

“It is temporary,” Ulf said kindly. “You will survive it. It is symbolic, of course; you will be under the All-Father’s protection for the duration of our stay.”

“Who is their champion?” Angrboda asked.

“Odin-son,” the old man replied. “He is young, as you are, and strong, as you can be when you apply yourself.”

Ulf had known her when she was young, had trained her and raised her as his own daughter when her father had been mortally wounded fighting an incursion of Stone Giants from the west. He was her uncle, her kinsman, and she was heir not only to his knowledge and property but also to her father’s position of mage and speaker to the four clans.

All this Angrboda knew, and understood, yet still in her heart she longed to wander deep into the Iron Wood, to run and hunt in wolf-aspect, to wear witches’ weeds, to dig her hands into the soil and twine herself into the roots and branches of the trees themselves. 

_I feel empathy now for Holmvidr and the Northern clan,_ she thought to herself. _I can understand the restlessness under the yoke of Asgard._ “I will not make it too simple for their _fróðleikr_ master.”

“I would not expect you to,” Ulf said, “but do not forget what is expected of you. Show them a humble visage; be biddable and respectful. We are a poor nation under siege.”


	3. Arrival in Asgard

Holmvidr, elder of the Iron Wood, leader of the Northern clan, was a tall man, but bent inwards, as if continuously pained by his stomach. The road to the Great Hall was uneven, and he walked carefully, so as not to fall. His youngest son, Hunvidr, walked beside him dutifully.

“The men are looking forward to testing the strength of the Asgardian warriors,” Hunvidr said cautiously. “To see the golden city…”

Holmvidr gave a short bark of laughter and fixed his son with a shrewd eye. “You would not be so eager if you had been there before,” he replied, and shook his grizzled head. “It is nothing like our home.” He stopped. “Look at this place,” he said, with a note of disgust in his voice, and continued on. “Asgard is nothing like Jotunheim, and yet everything it could have been.”

“Father…”

Holmvidr stopped and put his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “You have sway with Angrboda,” he said quietly, bringing his whiskered face to his son’s ear. “Speak to her. Encourage her to hear my words, and the words of our clan. The salvation of our people lies with Utgard, not with Asgard.”

Hunvidr pulled back. “I would not have her act against her conscience in anything, Father. Perhaps it is we who should listen.”

“You have been besotted with that girl since you were children, Hunvidr. You are no less foolish now than you were then. This is no time for childish yearnings and fond rememberings. We stand at the threshold of a new age for our people, and Angrboda and the Eastern clan dither, and scrape and bow to Asgard. This is not the way of our people. Is this your way, my son? Of what renown is a warrior of such a people? Would you have that be your legacy?”

Hunvidr’s face twisted. “You have ever sought to make me less than I am, Father. I cannot speak against my heart.”

Holmvidr laughed bitterly. “Spoken like a warrior. Perhaps it is my fault that you are so ignorant of statecraft. Perhaps it is because of my choices that you so lack imagination and ambition. Go then, side with the Witch. I think you will find she has less of a warrior’s heart than you think she does.”

Angrboda stood before the doors of the Great Hall, attended by her kinsmen Ulf and Arne. Representatives from the three remaining clans stood with them.

“We go for the good of our people,” she said, and her voice rang clear. “We go to pay fealty to Odin All-Father, and to address the treaty that was laid down after the Great Loss. I will offer myself as sacrifice as proof of our devotion, and we will return with goodwill and blessings upon us.” Her eyes landed on the grim features of Holmvidr. “We go to consolidate the vows and brotherhood between our clans. If you are in accord, say aye.”

A chorus of voices, and then silence. Angrboda tipped back her head and spoke the words Ulf had taught her. “Heimdall,” she called. “We are prepared. Open the Bifrost.”

The Bifrost is powerful and terrifying, and even the hearts of the hardiest of warriors have turned to water by the time they find themselves on solid ground. Hands well-trained for battle reach for the reassuring presence of sword and spear, and are settled again. Angrboda stood, and looked, and looked some more. They were in a great golden room, and the fabled rainbow bridge glowed under their feet. Ulf straightened his robes, and stepped forward.

“Heimdall,” he said, as one greeting an old friend. “Thank you.”

“It has been many years, Ulf,” a voice rumbled. A great man, nearly as tall as one of Laufey’s kin, stood before them. He was dressed for battle, girt in golden armor, but his sword stood before him, sheathed in a large device. “I have watched you, from time to time, and followed your career with great interest.”

Ulf turned, and held out his hand toward his ward. “Angrboda, you called and Heimdall answered. Step forward, and greet the one who watches over all.”

“Greetings, child,” the golden man said, and his far-seeing eyes regarded her solemnly. “Welcome, Angrboda, Witch of the Iron Woods, voice of The People. Welcome to Asgard.”

A company of Asgardians waited beyond the golden dome. A man stood at the head, flanked by a guard of warriors. All tall, all clad in shining armor, they stood their ground as Ulf held out his hands in welcome.

Hunvidr stood at the back of Arne’s guard, anxious to proceed. His eyes lighted on his father, clad in robes suited best to the chill of an Iron Wood winter, and rolled his shoulders as a trickle of sweat slid between his shoulder blades. Shining, all shining, glinting in the rays of a too-bright sun. Everything was as smooth as a river rock, all texture and depth eroded into a flat sameness that unsettled him. Even the men, their faces bare of the clan markings born by the People, seemed polished and strange.

One of the Asgardians stepped forward. He was in green and gold, crowned with a helmet of gleaming horns, and his eyes were pale and sharp. He was not brawny and over-sized like the warriors in his guard, Hunvidr noted, but akin to the warriors of the People, who tended to be lean and muscled, with an awareness of form that comes from long practice on the field. 

Angrboda stood still, but Hunvidr, who knew her well, could read anxiety in the set of her shoulders. Only her hair, wild and unbound, moved. He stood and watched the act unfold before him: Angrboda’s hair on the wind, the man stepping forward, and again. Hunvidr’s skin prickled, and he gathered what magic he had around him, prepared to fight.

Arne’s elbow in his ribs startled him, and he pitched forward, earning a sharp look from his father. “They look indecent, don’t they?” he whispered. Arne nodded at a woman in silver mail, who watched the proceedings sternly. “The woman… I haven’t seen a woman without paint since my wedding night.”

“Their customs are not as our own, Arne,” Hunvidr replied.

Another warrior, Palni, leaned in. “I want to challenge the big one,” he muttered. “He is nearly as big around as a Frost Giant.”

Hunvidr’s stomach tightened, and it was with effort that he did not reach for his sword. The green man stood before Angrboda, his hands open in a gesture of peace and welcome.

The Asgardian spoke. “Noble Council of the People of the Iron Wood: I am Loki, Odin-son, and I bid you welcome to Asgard.”

The Asgardian sun shone down, casting the colors of the Bifrost into a riot. Heat rose up. Angrboda could smell the tension of her people as the Asgardians fell in with them, compounded by the heat and the light, so unlike that of the Iron Wood.

The emissary walked beside her, his manner courteous. “The heat must be oppressive,” he commented. “There are ships to take us to the citadel, and refreshments await you and your people. You’ll be afforded accommodations and a brief time to rest before the tournament.”

Ulf thanked him quietly, his breath stolen away by the effort expended during the walk to where the boats were moored. Angrboda felt a flash of anger at the unfairness of it all, at ceremony and tradition that left an old man to struggle for dignity.

It was slight, and deliberate, but Angrboda could feel the gathering power. Nature itself seemed so removed from that place, so lost in the straight, symmetrical lines of the Bifrost and the gleaming, golden light. There was no conduit, no tree or rock or moving breeze. The power shifted, and Loki _reached_ , and a cool mist began to fall. 

Angrboda smiled, despite her anxieties, and Loki held out a hand as one ushering another through an open door. Angrboda spared a thought for Ulf, who had turned to speak with Holmvidr, and reached through the web of magic Loki had spun. A moment of thought, a careful manipulation of the energy he had produced, and a cool breeze carried the mist over the Bifrost. The helmeted men waiting patiently by the ships looked at one another, and then up, surprised by the sudden change in the weather.

Ulf cackled, and strode forward. “That is a pleasant change. The weather here is fitful, is it not?”

Angrboda smiled fondly after him, and caught Loki’s eye. He inclined his head, graciously, and they continued on.

The ships were a marvel, sleek and fast. _This_ Angrboda could enjoy: the rush of wind made cool by spellwork, the gleaming city dissolved into muted color by their swift passing. She heard Ulf’s exclamation, heard the startled cries and laughter of the clan leaders and the men, and felt her own, fierce grin take over the carefully-modulated expression on her face. The weight of the wind played in the antlers she wore, and she turned to spare a glance at Loki.

He stood beside her, head tilted to take on the rush of wind. His strange, pale eyes met hers, and he called back to the guard who manned the craft. “Push her a little faster, _einherji_ ,” he said.

Angrboda laughed and gripped the golden rail that ran along the length of the interior of the craft. From somewhere behind them Ulf cursed, and the ship accelerated.

It was like being in a hurricane, in the midst of a great storm. Here was nature, the power of the land, familiar and chaotic. Angrboda longed to alter her shape, to turn into a great bird, to sail upon the currents of the wind and fly in the wake of the craft. The world was reduced to riot; restrictions and definitions, friends, enemies, faded and were lost in the force of the wind. She could bear no more; she could gladly suffer it forever, and it would never be enough.

The craft slowed eventually, and Angrboda felt sorrow. Ulf was grumbling, upset with the state of her hair and his robes and the world itself. The great citadel stood before them, golden and shining, each spire piercing the sky. Clouds floated hazily against the face of the citadel, and each golden-wrought window and door was as tall as a tree. Fear and elation warred with one another in her heart; this was Odin All-Father’s glory, and it was _mighty._

“Courage,” Ulf murmured, and set his robes straight. Loki held out his hand to help Angrboda down from the ship. Gone was the laughing, mischievous man; there and in that moment his expression became neutral and practiced.

“Welcome to the seat of Asgard’s power, Angrboda, Hreinns-dottir,” Loki said courteously, and his hand was cool to her touch.


	4. On the Field of Battle

Unlike their war-like cousins, the Frost Giants, Angrboda’s people were a woodland race, deeply spiritual, and with strong ties to the land. The loss of the Builder’s Tool, the Casket of Ancient Winters, had unbalanced the realm of Jotunheim and thrown the passing of seasons into chaos. The hardier Frost Giants had survived without much difficulty, for the loss of pride is easier to endure than famine and disease. Angrboda’s people had survived by returning to the Old Ways, by whittling down wider concerns until only the essentials remained, and therein thrived. Magic, that deep and ancient blood right, had flourished, and was evident in some way in each clan and family line.

Angrboda was forced to endure the wide-eyed subservience of Asgardian women as she dressed for the tourney field. They marveled, and stared, until the bolder of the two stepped forward to help her unbuckle the heavy brooches that secured the dress to her broad shoulders.

Jewelry followed: beads unwound from neck and wrists, rings coaxed from white arms and fingers. She stood still and silent, scenting their apprehension. Downcast eyes forgot themselves and lingered on the web of marks that graced her skin, exploring one of the many differences between them.

The People of the Iron Wood said that the lines on their bodies were etched into them by the elements themselves, patterns pressed into skin by the teeth of wolves and the branches of the Iron Wood trees. A child of the Iron Wood people was smaller and more marked than Laufey’s kin, the Frost Giants, who were smaller still and less marked than the great Stone Giants of the West. The Sea Giants, the smallest of all, were nearly Asgardian-smooth and lived their days out on the rocky shores and in the icy waters of Jotunheim. They were all kin, the same and yet each unique. Hereditary marks graced the foreheads of all the people of Jotunheim, and for the people of the Iron Wood, clannish and remote, they held the most reverence, traced over most lovingly with ocher and oil pressed from the tiny black seeds of the cono plant. 

The Asgardian women were as strange to Angrboda as she was to them. Legendarily smooth-skinned and fair-haired, they were dressed in gowns that whispered of comfort and opulence. Their white and even teeth did not bear evidence of a life-long diet of marrow and root vegetables; their soft and dewy cheeks showed no evidence of hunger or despair. Though they were no younger than the woman they served, she thought them like children, innocent and sweet, without guile, and wholly untouched by magic.

It was, therefore, no surprise that the antlers the witch wore gave them pause. The bolder of the two, barely out of her teens, gestured. “Will you,” she asked, “Will you wear them when you…”

“Oh,” Angrboda said, and magicked them away, to spiral into black curls that reached her shoulders. “I’d forgotten.”

They continued to help her dress in silence, but the delicate peace between them had become disturbed. Apprehension gave way to fear, and distrust. It seemed strange to Angrboda that they would accept her alien appearance before they accepted her casual use of magic, and she spared a thought for the gifted Loki.

“You are frightened by magic,” she said quietly, and the women appeared startled.

The bolder spoke. “It is… it is not common in Asgard,” she replied. Her companion made a noise, and she continued. “We prize strength-of-arms over the use of magic. It is… it is considered false and…”

“Unnatural,” the other said, and flushed scarlet.

Angrboda moved away from their tentative hands, and laid her hand on one of the massive columns that supported the balustrade. Quiet stone, sleeping granite, so ancient that it had forgotten the deep quarries in which it had once been housed. Magic laid dormant in the foundations of this place, so long asleep that it was nothing but a story in the minds of children.

The women watched her apprehensively. “Are there forests on Asgard?” Angrboda asked, suddenly lonely for the trees.

“Yes,” the bolder one said, with a note of relief in her voice. Angrboda wondered if they had expected her to grow dark with rage and eat them. “Great, wandering forests. Sometimes we will go and gather mushrooms. The trees are so tall.”

Angrboda could easily see the picture painted in the woman’s mind: great, towering trees, sun-dappled moss, the gentle sound of a playful wind in the leaves. Nothing at all like the Iron Wood, where the stout trees twisted in on themselves, gnarled and ancient and battered by the fierce elements. No dread wolves or blight marred the kindly forest of Asgard. It seemed then, to the scornful Angrboda, that the Asgardians did all of their famed adventuring away from home, and couched their exploits in half-truths and supposition.

They tell the story, on Jotunheim, that ancient Odin’s own mother had been giant-kind, and that when he took up arms against the Frost Giants he had taken up arms against his kin.

“Bring hot water,” the witch said, inspired, and touched the marks on her forehead with a thought for the careful work of her kinswomen. “I would like to bathe.”

Angrboda appeared on the field of battle unpainted and unadorned, and a little late. Her hair had been left loose upon my shoulders by the women, and she wore a simple shift. She carried nothing in her hands or on her person.

Hunvidr, who had just finished catering to the Asgardian crowd with fierce growls and the flexing of his broad arms, stared in astonishment. His comrades drew in on themselves, unsure of where to look. 

The wind shifted and Angrboda could smell Hunvidr’s surprise; it was possible for her to palpably taste his sudden anxiety, twined through with a sharp thread of arousal.

Her eyes met his for an instant, and then she turned and approached the royal dais. “All-Father,” she called, and the great Odin turned his leonine head from discussion with the armored and be-horned Loki to favor her with his one pale eye. Angrboda thought of her father, bewitched to shine like a mirror in the face of the All-Father. “Odin, do you see me?”

The crowd quieted. She stood blinking in the too-bright sun and waited. Asgard pulsed in recognition under her bare feet.

The All-Father spoke. “I see you, Angrboda,” he said evenly, and turned to his master of ceremonies. “Let the tournament begin.”

Arne roared as he fought, fearless and joyful, and bested his opponent after a well-fought match. His comrade, Palni, grimaced so fiercely as he fought that a woman in the front row of the audience hid her face in the shoulder of the golden-haired boy beside her.

“Would the People approve, Ulf?” Angrboda asked, as the match wore on. “Do you think my father would have approved?”

Ulf spared a glance at the row of elders watching from the dais. “I think you have set a reckless tone for the negotiations, Angrboda. I thought your father bold when he showed the All-Father a reflection of himself. Odin will not hesitate to put you in your place, and he will use his seidhr to do so. How do you imagine I will keep the elders of the clans restrained now, girl? They will be encouraged by this.” He shook his head. “No, I do not think your father would have thought this wise.”

“And you, Ulf? What do you think?”

His dark eyes met her own. “I counsel you to have a care. Do not die a martyr upon this field. Do not give me cause to sing of the short life of Angrboda.”

Palni fought bravely: fast and hard, giving no quarter to the large Asgardian, who laughed and roared in equal measure as they fought. Palni was silent, and Angrboda was reminded of his wolf-shape in the glare of his eye and the harsh breaths he took. The sweat that poured from his brow ran through the lines drawn on his skin, blurring the lines between his skin and the marks that graced it. He was purple-faced and growling in the face of the Asgardian before the master called a draw. Each stared into the face of the other for a long moment in the wake of the battle, and the guards at the dais stirred, preparing themselves to pull the warriors apart. The Asgardian held out a hand, which Palni promptly clasped.

“This man is my brother!” the Asgardian shouted, and that great shout turned into a booming laugh as he embraced Palni around the shoulders and thumped him on the back. “Come, my brother,” the Asgardian said. “Come, and let us slake our thirst together.”

Hunvidr lost his match to a helmeted Asgardian, and retired from the field, shaken. His father refused Hunvidr’s glance, and Angrboda nodded at him reassuringly as he limped past, holding his ribs. His eyes bore into hers before he turned, and went to his place along the sidelines without speaking to her.

Egill’s match was over in a short time, though the Asgardian against whom he fought sought to lengthen it to appease the crowd’s hunger. Egill had little patience for politics or drama, and brought the man to the dust quickly and efficiently. The crowd’s response was less than enthusiastic.

Ulf’s hand grasped Angrboda’s shoulder, sharp fingers pressing almost to the bone. “It is time,” he rasped, and bent low. “Remember your duty.”

She had fought before. She’d fought her share of battles with Stone Giants and marauders, weaving spells from behind a shield-wall and using her sword when her magic was exhausted. She’d run with her clan in wolf-shape through the Wood, hunted prey of every description. When Loki, son of Odin, stepped down from the dais and onto the field, she knew him for what he was, and, upon scenting the air, realized that only a few in the crowd did the same.

His voice and smile were solicitous when he greeted her, but his eyes were that of a predator. Power crackled and eddied under his skin, and her own prickled in response. “I thought perhaps this was to be a festive occasion,” he said quietly, looking her up and down, “but something tells me that you are spoiling for a fight.”

“I am not the only one,” she retorted, and scented the air once more. 

The rotund warrior called from the sidelines. “You are a little over-dressed, Loki,” he guffawed, and the Asgardians near enough to hear laughed. “As usual!”

A moment of irritation, and then a shimmer of magic. “Better, Volstagg?” Loki called, and turned to woo the crowd. “There is no accounting for style.”

The crowd laughed again, and Loki turned to face Angrboda. The armor had been displaced in favor of a simple suit of clothes, but she knew that if she looked deep enough that it remained. This was not a creature to go unarmored into any fight.

“Let’s begin,” he said shortly.

His immense power pushed in on her, weighing her down, running quicksilver along the edges of her reach. Loki moved like a viper, sharp-toothed and calculating, striking without warning. It was impossible to keep him at bay, and each blocked parry was hard-pressed and overcome. She knew she would turn to dust under the unforgiving Asgardian sky before he would ever reach the limit of his power. After a volley of well-aimed shots, she pulled in on herself, beaten and harrassed. Each blast that hit struck hard, but it was the suffocation of it, the weight of his power, that drove her to her knees.

She was dimly aware of the noise of the crowd, of Hunvidr’s panic, of Ulf’s gaze. It was Ulf’s reflexive jolt and shudder, when she turned to unsuccessfully block a powerful blast, which caused something deep inside to crack. Another hit and it broke asunder, and Angrboda reached deep into the sleeping roots of Asgard.

The field pitched and rolled, and Loki rolled with it. She stood and staggered forward, and a great chasm appeared in her wake. The earth sang, grateful to be remembered. Soil and rock shook loose from the firmament, eagerly leapt to her waiting hand, and rained down on the surprised Loki.

Here was power and strength at last, long denied. The air bent itself to her command, and she wrapped him in a whirlwind, a riot of motion and noise. She could hear the cries of the crowd as the ground shook and saw the chaos reach the sidelines and the dais. The Elders and courtiers threw their arms up reflexively, and Odin himself stood. A great golden wall of power extended, stilling the elements, directing the fight back onto the tournament field.

It was her own sudden, sharp burst of pride that distracted her, and Loki pushed through, using his power to shape a long-reaching arm. A hand made from rock and soil caught her around the throat and propelled her backwards, with Loki on his feet and following, The reluctant element crumbled away, and Loki came on, until it was his own broad, calloused hand that encircled her neck. Magic sparked under his skin, held in check, and it was his physical strength that held her fast.

“Yield,” said he.

“You first,” Angrboda said, and grinned.

His eyes widened in surprise, and his answering smile was brief but sharp. “Unlikely,” said Loki.

A simple manipulation of the dust in the air formed a shade, a moment of distraction, and Angrboda used the weight of her body to unbalance Loki. Down they went, grappling all the while, until she hit the ground. Loki balanced over her, smiling fiercely. 

“Yield,” he commanded. 

“You first,” she panted. The turf dissolved, soil softened, and Loki pitched forward. Angrboda rolled with him until he lay flat on his back, with herself perched over him and triumphant. 

“Yield,” she barked, and could not stop the breathless laughter that bubbled forth.

Loki grinned, and the bright joy of it undid his opponent. “Not today,” Loki said, and the heavy, unstoppable force of his power tipped her over and over again until she lay underneath him, caught by the pressure of his knee between hers and his hands holding fast to her wrists. 

She remembered herself with a shuddering, startled breath; saw herself, unpainted and bare-legged, sprawled out under Asgard’s champion before the All-Father and the Elders. Loki’s eyes held hers, unreadable, and she drew in the air between them: sweat, magic, joy, and the sudden, intense scent of masculine _interest_.

Odin spoke a word of command and the sky split to pour a furious rain upon them.


	5. A Sacrifice

Angrboda sat before a roaring fire. The Asgardian women had returned to dress her for the ceremony. News of the tournament had traveled before the returning combatants, and she’d endured the women’s trembling hands and sour fear for a short while before sending them away. They left hurriedly, without backward glances, pulling the massive door shut behind them.

Angrboda had not seen Loki after the fight; Ulf had appeared with a cloak and bundled her away, muttering in her ear about honor and duty. It had been too much, he’d said, she’d given away too much. Odin was insulted, the grasping Elders were encouraged, and the Asgardian politicians and court were bubbling with unease and animosity. Magic like that, he had lectured, should be tempered and used with precision, not let loose to wreak havoc in a ceremonial tournament.

“I thought they would never leave,” a voice said quietly from the shadows, and Hunvidr stepped forward, stretching his back. He had not bothered to change after the tournament, and his dark hair stuck up all over his head.

Angrboda laughed. “You are getting very good at disguising your scent. How long have you been there?”

Hunvidr sat before the fire, rubbing life back into his arms and legs. “I rode back as a mouse in the basket of a servant,” he replied. “I’m lucky I found you. This place is… monstrous.”

“You should not be quick to use magic here,” she cautioned, “not now, and especially not after tonight’s ceremony.”

“Are you afraid?” Hunvidr asked, after a long pause.

“Yes,” Angrboda admitted. Hunvidr shifted uncomfortably. “And no,” she said, and held up a hand. “I am afraid of being _without_ , bereft of substance. I will be a shadow, and for how long? Long enough for the politicians and elders to agree? That makes me afraid.”

“You are strong enough to withstand this,” Hunvidr said devoutly. “You nearly bested their champion; I saw it, and in nothing but your simple gown, barefoot… Angrboda, you shamed them.”

Angrboda laughed bitterly. “So Ulf has told me. He said that I have made his part in this more difficult now. He says I have given away secrets; that I have encouraged the Elders to reach for more. He is… disappointed.”

Hunvidr sighed. “He is cautious, and ever has been. What you did today; it was right that it should happen.”

“I am not so certain now, Hunvidr.”

“You misunderstand,” Hunvidr said. He ran his hand over his face, indicating his clan markings. “Your face - this was a clarion call to our people, Angrboda. When they hear what you have done…”

“You did not watch closely enough,” she argued. “If I withstood for a moment’s time then it was because Odin’s son allowed it to be so. He is more powerful than you can even imagine.” She shook her head. “Do not speak of this. We exist at their mercy. Surely you must see that now. Surely we must all see this.”

Hunvidr stood. “Leadership weighs heavy on you,” he said firmly. “My eyes are clear now, Angrboda. The Asgardians _fear_ Jotunheim. I see it in their faces.” He knelt and grasped her hands. “We must use that fear. Laufey…”

Angrboda pulled her hands from his. “Laufey? Your father speaks through you, Hunvidr. Do not speak to me of _Laufey_.”

“Father was right,” Hunvidr said, and laughed bitterly. “You have been taught to be cautious, and you have been right to be so in the past, but now is the time. We should return to the Iron Wood _now_. Forget fealty. You can control the Elements themselves. If you can do that here, as you did, imagine how strong you would be on Jotunheim with all of our warriors behind you.” His eyes were fierce. “Let us go now. Let us speak to my father.”

Angrboda chewed on her lip. “I think you must have been struck on the head during your fight.”

Hunvidr’s face darkened. “Don’t do that,” he warned, and pushed back onto his heels. “Don’t speak to me like that. You sound like my father.”

Angrboda’s heart twisted. “I will not have this argument with you here, of all places,” she said sharply. “You should report to Arne, Hunvidr. You should not be here.”

He stood, and strode to the door. “You are not yourself,” he declared, and stopped. “I will come to you after the ceremony. You needn’t be afraid. I… I will not let any harm come to you.”

She did not answer, and Hunvidr slipped out the door.

There were few people left outside the hall, and the footfalls of the guard who escorted Angrboda echoed off of the tall stone walls. This was not the first vassal to come to kneel at his king’s feet, nor was she the most powerful, but something about her painted features and the copper tips of the antlers she wore reminded him of a story he’d heard once, of wild creatures and monsters that ran through the night. He was a brave and loyal man, but it made the skin of his neck prickle in warning to feel her behind him, padding along on silent feet, the only evidence of her passing the sound of the heavy robes she wore and the bells in her hair. 

He delivered the witch to her old companion and stood aside with relief, waiting silently.

“You are brooding, Ulf,” Angrboda said quietly, and he turned to regard her.

“If I brood it is only because there is something worth brooding about,” he replied. “I am glad to see you have dressed for the occasion.” His rough old hand, gnarled like the branches of an iron tree, tilted her head toward the window and the light of the dying day. “You’re beginning to bruise.”

“I came by it honestly. Is it time?”

“In a moment,” Ulf said. “They are giving speeches now.” His hands grasped her shoulders. “I think you see now what your father saw, Angrboda. Peace is the best way. Swear fealty now, and there will be peace for an age. Let that comfort you now. No more tricks; no more _declarations_. Do what must be done, endure, and we will continue our work for lasting change.”

Ulf’s expression was fierce; no less fierce than Hunvidr's had been before the fire. Angrboda, like her people, found herself torn between two poles, stretched thin. Her proud heart longed to fight for the rights of the People of the Iron Wood, to see them honored and respected and no longer subjected to the consequences of a fight not their own. Yet in her mind’s eye she saw the children, the elderly; she remembered the hunger that stretched across their land and claimed so many during the Long Winter. They would be the first to suffer in a fight; they were _always_ the first to suffer.

Panic clutched her heart. “Ulf,” she whispered.

Ulf drew her close and pressed his forehead to hers. “Daughter of my heart,” he sighed. “This is the best way.”

The great, cavernous hall stretched before Angrboda. The way was lined with Asgardian soldiers, and the Asgardian people pooled behind them. Odin All-Father sat at the end of the hall, high upon a dais, golden and shining. Loki stood below, hands clasped before him, unsmiling.

A tattoo began somewhere in the wings; rhythmic and unfaltering - an Asgardian rendition of the drums of the Iron Wood people. 

“Courage,” Ulf whispered. “Courage, child. It must be done.”

Angrboda stepped forward. The crowd pressed in expectantly. She did not look at them; she need not look at them to see them to hear the whispers, to scent the apprehension on the air. She did not turn to regard the shining guards, stern-faced and silent. She walked, neither hurrying nor dawdling, and thought of escape. She thought of the hard, cold ground of the Iron Wood under the pads of her wolf-paws, of the bite of the air as she twisted and winged along the frozen currents. She thought of sitting at her father’s bedside and listening to his rhythmic, rapid struggle for breath.

She thought of all of those things, and more, until she stood at the foot of the All-Father’s throne and all thought ceased. She was aware of the Elders watching nearby, of the warriors Arne and Egill and Palni, and of Hunvidr, who stood with them, eyes glowing fiercely. She was aware of those things, but had eyes only for the All-Father, and for the great golden glow that suffused the air around him.

Someone was speaking nearby. Angrboda became aware of this in degrees, and turned to regard Loki. He spoke again, patiently, with the air of one who has been forced to repeat something. “Angrboda, Witch of the Iron Wood and Voice of the People, why do you come?” he asked solemnly.

She looked at Odin, high on his throne, shining and terrible.

“To swear fealty,” she whispered, and felt small. Something, a spell of some kind, caught her voice and amplified it for the silent crowd. Her heart beat like a frightened, wild thing, trapped in a cage of sinew and bone. 

_To be outside,_ she thought frantically. She could smell her own, rank fear; could hear the shuffle of Hunvidr’s boot against the flagstones and the creak of leather as Arne laid a warning hand on her friend’s bracer. _To be away from here. They will take all I am and leave nothing behind. How can this be best?_

The wolf inside howled for release.

Odin leaned forward.

Loki inclined his head and stepped closer. “Breathe,” he advised quietly, and the stern, tight line of his mouth softened. “It will be over in a moment.”

She would remember later the glow of torchlight, caught in the runes on his gauntlet. She would remember the moment he began to gather his magic and the time that stretched out afterward, and the hope that blossomed in those seconds, hope that perhaps it was all ceremonial after all, a lie passed down from generation to generation, and that nothing would happen, and that there would only be feasting and dancing, and a long, healing sleep after.

Something _tugged_ at her, a sharp pull that stole her breath away. She bared her teeth, and the shadows thrown by the torchlight lengthened, consuming everything.

Angrboda blinked the fog from her eyes. She was, she knew, still in the great hall, but also in a carven chamber. Two ravens sat on a perch nearby, and blinked their shining eyes.

A voice came from behind. Odin stood in the center of the room, and Loki with him, deep in conversation with one another. Loki’s hands were out, his voice even, persuasive.

“ _Surely_ there can be little advantage,” he was saying. “The treaty between Asgard and Jotunheim has been preserved for more than a thousand years. You have shown me the Iron Wood, in word and in dreaming. They are little more than children.”

Odin laughed humorlessly. “They are our complete opposites. Their power lies in chaos and entropy.”

“If you would help me understand their importance to you…”

“My son has forgotten his history lessons,” Odin said sharply. “I know Laufey’s heart. I know the hearts of Olvadi and his kin. The People of the Iron Wood are anarchic, without order, and they must continually be brought to heel.”

Loki inclined his head. A movement, a sudden awareness, and Loki wheeled around to look at Angrboda.

The light shifted. Odin and his ravens disappeared, and they were in a dark, empty space, lit only by a single, unwavering light.

“Where are we?” Angrboda breathed.

“We are in the Great Hall, in the middle of a ceremonial sacrifice,” he retorted, and the scene shifted. She observed the Greal Hall, frozen in a moment. Her corporeal self stood with Loki, his hand extended and waiting. A pale nimbus surrounded her, mirrored by his own, green and vibrant. 

“Is that my magic?”

“Yes.”

“What is it doing?”

“Preparing itself to fight me, at the moment,” he said drily. 

“I am not intending to,” Angrboda said sharply. 

His strange eyes wandered over her. “You fought well today,” he said. “Not many people can surprise me.”

She could not use her sense of smell in this place, and magic hung close around them. “You were generous in victory,” Angrboda replied evenly, and Loki laughed. “Why have you brought me here?”

“I would have us come to an agreement,” Loki replied. 

The tableau of sacrifice shone before us. “Your timing is… strange,” she said.

Loki smiled. “We cannot be seen or heard here. What passes for minutes between us is but the beginning of a moment there.”

Angrboda considered. “I will listen.”

He seemed pleased. “I have no desire to take your magic,” he said. “The Treaty is outdated. Your people have heart but they are disorganized and prone to in-fighting. They are no threat to Asgard.”

Angrboda thought that several of the Asgardians she had seen would think differently with her teeth at their throats, but did not say so. “What do you propose?” 

“Keep your magic,” he said.

“In return?”

“Swear to me,” Loki replied. “Swear in this place, with the words I give you.” He indicated the world outside of the magic that surrounded us. “They will hear what they expect to hear.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Laufey and Odin will not endure forever. My brother is meant to rule,” Loki said. “I am to be his adviser. I would see Jotunheim restored; it does Asgard no credit to let your realm die.”

“You would restore the Casket of Ancient Winters to us?”

“I would like to see it used for its purpose: not a weapon or a toy for fools and old men, but a tool.”

“What assurance can you give me?”

Loki considered, and drew a shape in the air. The shape became form, molded by his hands, and he plucked it from the air and gave it to her. It was Angrboda in carven form, complete down to the embroidery on her dress. “Keep this with you while you are in Asgard,” he said. “It will disguise your magic. When your stay is over, a word to this figure will make its way to me without any other hearing. We will be allies.”

“Allies do not swear fealty to one another,” she retorted, and Loki smiled slowly.

“They do not,” he replied.

“I cannot speak for the People without the approval of the elders,” she said.

“I do not ask the People of the Iron Wood to be my allies. I ask you.”

He stepped closer, and the magic shifted with him. The bells on the ends of her braids sang. “Promise me that I can ask for and receive your aid in Jotunheim four times. That is my bargain for the work I will do on behalf of the people of Jotunheim. I will rebuild Jotunheim; I will see your people prosper in our time.”

Four. The number of clans, the number of Jotunn races. If he knew then the poetry of his offer, then he did not indicate it.

Angrboda reached into the web of magic that surrounded them; dark, far-seeing eyes sought patterns and prophecy. The web of magic around them unspooled and reformed, and a tree of the Iron Wood, heavily-laden with fruit, hung in the air between them for a moment before fading into nothingness.

“I will be your ally,” Angrboda said.

“We have an accord,” Loki replied, and rubbed his long hands together. “I have given you the figure. I need something of yours; something of the Iron Wood.”

She untied a bell from the end of one of her long braids. “This was formed in the Iron Wood.”

He took the bell. “A little sleight of hand and the illusion will be complete.” He cleared his throat. “The ceremony will, unfortunately, have to be a little unpleasant for you. There is simply no other way.”

“I am not afraid of discomfort,” she said staunchly, and then faltered. “It is preferable to being scooped out like a gourd.” It was how her father had described the sacrifice of his magic; he had never forgotten it.

Loki nodded. “The old mages were a bit heavy-handed,” he admitted. “Take back your bell for now; hold onto it as tightly as you can.”

Angrboda looked at Odin, caught in a moment. His one eye glittered. “He cannot see us here?”

Loki looked up at the All-Father. “No, but he will suspect if we tarry any longer. Are you ready?”

“Yes. I am ready.”

The light shifted, and a great roaring filled their ears. Angrboda was aware of her corporeal self, aware of the first breath she drew, and then the whole of her body - her _self_ \- was tugged forward. Great swathes of magic wound around her, burning and tight. The magic inside of her met it like a wild thing, thrashing against the bonds. A tortured howling filled her ears.

_Don’t_ , a voice warned. _You will tear yourself to pieces._

The wolf inside of her did not care; self-preservation did not extend past the present moment. Territorial, it growled and twisted and snarled, foam-flecked jaws snapping at the air.

A violent tug and something tore loose.

If Loki held something in his hands, she could no longer see it. A gesture, a rune of safe-keeping drawn on the air, and he stepped away. “It is done,” he announced.

The noise of the crowd was muted, the colors of the room bled into each other. A hand caught Angrboda’s arm, and Hunvidr leaned across her to bare his teeth at Loki. “You nearly _killed_ her, Asgardian,” he hissed, before Palni pulled him back and propelled him into the crowd. 

Ulf hurried down from his place on the dais. “Forgiveness, lord,” Ulf murmured. “He is young and rash.” He turned and nodded at Arne, who took Angrboda’s arm and propelled her away as if she were of no more consequence than a doll made of wood and twine. She thought of the little carven figure in her hand, and stumbled.

“He lied,” she whispered, disoriented. “He _lied_.”

Arne held her tight. “Do not let them see you fall,” he murmured gruffly. “Do not give them the satisfaction, Angrboda.”

Without her magic to sustain them, the antlers she wore untwisted and fell into her eyes. Unbalanced, she stumbled once again. Everything was blurred and muted, as if she’d stuck her head underwater. 

The wolf inside whimpered.


	6. Frigga

Angrboda dreamed for a long while, tossed back and forth between dreams like a leaf on the wind. At times she found herself sitting at the council table, with the elders all around her and a great snake laid out on the table before them. At other times she found herself in a giant cauldron, her head held above the cool water by firm, gentle hands that floated disembodied on a pale mist. Sometimes she slept, and other times she returned to the Iron Wood, and walked barefoot in the freshly-fallen snow. A great wolf walked behind her, his breath hot on her neck.

Dreams of prophecy, of fever and fear and grief; burning hot and cold in equal measure as she twisted in their grasp.

At last she awoke. It was night, heavy and humid, lit by the glow of distant torches. A cool hand brushed the hair back from her forehead. 

“There we are,” a gentle voice said. “Any longer and I would have been worried, dear.”

“Where am I?” Angrboda croaked. She was in a great, gilt bed, hung with silken curtains. The light in the room was low. and the woman beside her was lit only by the candles in sconces on the wall and the flames in the brazier at the center of the room. Sweet, spicy herbs burned in the coals and layered against the scent of Asgardian night. Angrboda wondered if they had contributed to her dreaming. 

“Still on Asgard, I’m afraid,” the gentlewoman said, sympathetically. “Your people brought you to your chambers and left you to our care. You collapsed after you left the hall. How is your pain?”

Angrboda considered. “Less,” she said, surprised. “But my magic…”

“Our healers are very good,” she said, gently. “I imagine you will be tender for a few days, but there are things we can give you to help with that. You won’t heal as quickly as you would with your magic, but we will help however we can.”

“My throat is raw,” Angrboda wondered, and the woman lifted a cup to her lips. It was water, cool, flavored with honey and herbs.

“Do you remember much of the ceremony?” she asked carefully, as she set the cup aside.

“Everything,” Angrboda said, sure of nothing.

The gentlewoman’s compassionate eyes dimmed. “It was a hard trial,” she said, and her warm hands enfolded Angrboda’s. “You have fought a battle few would understand. There are not many in the Nine Realms who would stand against Loki as he plies his craft, and very, very few in Asgard.”

Angrboda bared her teeth. “He _lied_.”

The gentlewoman’s gentle face was solemn. “Perhaps when you are feeling better you can ask him about that.” A furtive noise came from the open balcony, and she smiled indulgently. “Your young friend has been waiting a long while. Your dreams troubled you less when he was near, and so we allowed him to stay.”

Angrboda lifted her head. Through the screen she beheld an owl, perched on the ledge of the balcony, eyes wide and glowing in the light of the torches. “Hunvidr,” she said, and relief flooded sweetly through her and set her limbs to trembling. 

The gentlewoman laughed softly. “He thinks I cannot see him,” she murmured. “We put the screen up to protect your modesty.”

They sat in silence for awhile. Tall, serene women moved around the room quietly, folding linens and murmuring softly to one another. One of them, older than the rest, came to whisper in the ear of the gentlewoman.

The gentlewoman spoke. “You are the first giantess who has come to Asgard in a long time, and we were unprepared. When you leave the planning to men, some things are overlooked. No doubt they thought to comfort you with attendants near your own age.” She indicated the quiet, stately women. “These women will stay with you and see to your needs. In the morning, when you are feeling better, you may wish to walk in the gardens, or see more of our home. They will accompany you, if you wish.”

Angrboda struggled to sit up, and the woman’s strong arms arranged her on the bed while the other pushed soft bolsters behind her back. “There,” the woman said. “The women will bring you something simple to eat when you call, and you then will want to sleep again. Your friend must not keep you long.”

Angrboda regarded the gentlewoman solemnly. She was the picture of civility and Asgardian womanhood, but had not recoiled from Angrboda’s pale, marked skin, or hesitated to meet her eyes. “I give you my thanks,” Angrboda said. “I owe you a debt. You have been kind to a stranger. It is an uncommon courtesy.”

“The Nine Realms would be better off if such courtesies were commonplace,” the gentlewoman said sonorously. “If you need me, tell the women. I will come.” She smiled, and clasped Angrboda’s hand. “You are very brave, and you will be brave when you need to be, whether the wolf is with you or not. Try not to despair.”

 _A witch, then, or a seeress,_ Angrboda thought, _to know so clearly what is in the heart._ “What is your name?”

The woman’s eyes sparkled. She leaned in, and her honeyed hair fell around them as she pressed her lips to Angrboda’s forehead. “My name is Frigga,” she said, “and I give you my blessing.”

The lady Frigga and her women withdrew, and Angrboda listened to the sound of the coals in the brazier before calling out to Hunvidr. He appeared in a flurry of movement, and knelt by her bedside, hand clutching hers. “You sounded as if you were dying,” he grated.

Angrboda tried for levity. “And yet, not dead,” she said, and smiled weakly. “What is happening with our people?”

Hunvidr scowled. “Eating and drinking with Asgardians,” he muttered. “I’m surprised they have the stomach for it.”

Angrboda blinked. “That is unlike you, Hunvidr,” she remarked. “Is the Golden Citadel not to your liking?”

The bed frame creaked as he rose and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I hate it,” he confessed, and stared at their joined hands. “I hate their pomposity and their gleaming towers, and that smooth-faced prince who gives with one hand and takes with the other. I saw how he was with you on the Bifrost, obsequious and kind. Two-faced wretch.”

Angrboda thought of the ceremony, and of the bargain she had struck with Loki. All for naught, it seemed. Her eyes darted around the room. “Do you see a little figure? It was the length of my thumb, carved from pale wood.”

Hunvidr reached into his pocket, and retrieved the figure. “Arne picked it up and gave it to me. He knew I intended to come see you.”

He relinquished it and she held it in her palm. It was unremarkable, but for the delicacy of the carving. 

“What is it?” Hunvidr asked.

“A charm,” she replied. “Loki gave it to me.”

Hunvidr’s face darkened. “He should not be giving you gifts,” he muttered.

Angrboda shrugged, and tucked the charm under her pillow. “I will send it back to him tomorrow,” she replied, and covered Hunvidr’s hand with her own. “Do I look very different, now that my magic is gone?”

“Pale,” he observed. “Tired.” He smiled shyly, and spoke softly, as if in confession. “My father is furious with Ulf. He says Ulf should never have allowed the sacrifice to be made, after you shook the very core of Asgard and caused Odin himself to raise the shield. Father said that Ulf should have sued the Asgardians to dismiss their call for fealty and demanded the return of the Builder’s Tool.”

“And now?”

Hunvidr watched her for a long while, his eyes undreadable in the low light of the room. At last he knelt again at the side of her bed, and lowered his forehead to lay against the back of her hand. Angrboda made to pull it back, but he was strong, and held her firm with one hand around her wrist.

“I have always known you would light our way,” he said fervently. He lifted his head, and she was startled to see tears in his eyes. “I would give my life for you, as would Egill and Arne and Palni. Maurr believes you are the Builder, come again. When you shook the ground itself, Angrboda, you changed everything. Can you truly not see?”

She shook her head. “You must not offer me your life, for I cannot begin to see,” she whispered. “When I reached for the Elements it was as it always has been, as if I were offering prayers or laying down a spell or reaching for prophecy. It was nothing more. I do not think I did that thing, Hunvidr. How could I have done that? I am only myself, Angrboda… I do not want to be the Builder Reborn. I want to serve the remainder of my father’s term as Voice of the Assembled and live out my days tending to the Iron Wood.”

He bowed his head, and his hand released its grasp on her wrist. “You may not have a choice. Father says the Council will rise against Ulf if he continues to preach temperence. He intends to ask you to take the Fifth Place, and sit across the table with them from the Asgardians.”

Angrboda laughed weakly. “I am no politician,” she said.

Hunvidr smiled. “And yet, here we are.” He rose to his feet and leaned over her as she slipped down into the bed. The dismay on his face when confronted with padded bolsters and coverlets was evident, for there was nothing so fine or frivolous in the Iron Wood. 

Angrboda noted his discomfort. “We should never have come here, you and I,” she said, and her speech was heavy and slow on her tongue. “We should have kept running, that night in the forest. I nearly caught you, that time.”

The room seemed distant; his hand on her hair and the voice in her ear seemed a product of imagination. “I should have let you,” he whispered tenderly, and she slipped back into the arms of dream.


	7. A Seat at the Table

Ulf found Angrboda in the palace gardens the next morning. The women had gifted her an Asgardian gown to wear, simple and cool, and much more comfortable in the bright morning than the garments she’d brought from Jotunheim. They had prompted her to eat a little breakfast and plaited her hair with gentle, capable hands.

Ulf, Angrboda noted, looked distinctly uncomfortable in his heavy robes. “You are looking much better this morning,” he said. “I am glad to see it is so. How are you feeling?”

“I am well enough,” she said. The herbs and medicines Frigga’s women administered had gone a long way in healing her body. Her spirit, however, ached, and she felt tired down to her bones. She had slept deeply after Hunvidr’s visit, but dreams had returned to trouble her in the morning.

Ulf lay the back of his gnarled hand against her cheek. “My heart rejoices. It should have been your father up there. It would hurt him to know that you suffered so. I wish that you had not come to Asgard.”

The corners of Angrboda’s mouth lifted, and then fell. “Do you speak now as my beloved kinsman, or as elder of my clan?”

Ulf’s brows rose, and took her hands in his as she turned to face him. “Am I not both?”

“You are,” she reassured him. “Hunvidr has come to see me; he has told me of Holmvidr’s plans. I worry for you, Uncle.”

The old man chuckled. “If Holmvidr and I did not cross one another in policy, then I would worry,” he said. “I have denied his demands to place you as Fifth at the council table; that is my right, as your kinsman.”

 _By the Elements,_ she thought, _but I am tired._ “You could have asked me,” she said sullenly, quietly, and Ulf leaned forward to peer at her.

“What has Hunvidr been saying to you? Not that nonsense about being the Builder Reborn?”

Angrboda flushed. “He said it.”

Ulf caught his laugh in his sleeve. “Oh, child,” he sighed, when he saw her face. “You are many remarkable things, but you are _not_ the Builder. That business on the tournament field: I have never seen magic like that from you before, and I doubt I will again. It happens sometimes, a brief moment of strength and power. The Elements find us when we are most receptive, but they are inconstant.”

“I suppose we won’t know, will we?” Angrboda said churlishly, and ducked her head to avoid his gaze. Her face burned; two spots of pale purple stood out on her cheeks.

“I would get less grief from the Council,” Ulf retorted blandly. “You should rest. Your trials have made you peevish. Sit you here with these women and amuse yourself in whatever way you can. You have done your part for our cause.”

It rankled, to be left alone; to be sat in a corner while the elders sat and hammered out the future of their People. Angrboda knew in a corner of her heart that she was young and lacked experience, and that Ulf was doing what he always did best. He was, she thought, ever like a fisherman on calm water: patient in form and in thought, and forever waiting.

Angrboda was not patient.

A noise from the balcony caught her attention, and she looked up to behold the lady Frigga. “Good morning,” the gentlewoman said and, beckoning to her attendants, made her way down the wide stairs and onto the garden path. Angrboda rose to greet her.

“You are looking much better this morning,” Frigga said tenderly, holding Angrboda at arm’s length for inspection. “This style suits you, child.”

“It is a generous gift,” Angrboda replied, smoothing the front of the gown. “We have nothing like this in the Iron Wood.”

Frigga smiled. “I doubt it would go a long way in keeping you warm.” She looped her arm through Angrboda’s, and together they walked down the path. “It is my understanding that the Iron Wood was not always as cold and desolate as it is now.”

The path was layered with pebbles, finely ground, and they crunched under the soles of Angrboda’s satin slippers. This, too, was unlike the Iron Wood. “The loss of the Builder’s Tool affects our seasons,” Angrboda commented. “The growing season is brief; spring and summer are marked by extreme weather. Winter lasts for more of the year. We would not survive without Asgardian aid.”

The golden curls that crowned Frigga’s head did not bounce or move, so graceful was she. “Before the war, Jotunheim was as pleasant as Asgard.”

Angrboda did not think the hot weather pleasant, but she did not say so. “That is what our elders say.” A thought occurred to her. “Lady, have you visited Jotunheim?”

“Oh yes,” Frigga replied. “Long ago. There were times we would visit Aegir, the Sea King, and make merry in his hall.”

“But no more.”

“No,” Frigga sighed. “No more.”

“It is part of the treaty,” Angrboda stated. “The Jotnar stay on Jotunheim, isolated from the rest of the Nine Realms.”

Frigga’s voice was light. “And what do you think of that?”

Frustration clenched tight in Angrboda’s chest. “We are hobbled. What trade we have is sanctioned through Asgard. We do not grow; we do not prosper. Jotunheim is stagnant, while everything around us changes.”

Frigga smiled knowingly. “And now the men sit and barter, while you and I tarry in the garden." The gentlewoman clasped her hands. “You have a much bigger part to play, child. Do you not believe it to be so? Have you not seen it?”

Angrboda thought of the tree in her vision, laden with blossoms. “I do not know what to do.”

Frigga’s hand was warm on her cheek. “There are roads all around us, child, each one leading to our fate. You need only take the first step.”

The Council of the People came, wrapped in their heavy cloaks of office, crowned in dignity and covered over with runes. They faced the Asgardian council with thinly-veiled disdain.

Loki refrained from rolling his eyes. He enjoyed politics; he relished the intrigue. It was a supreme joy of his to watch men dissemble: to gamble everything on a wager and then, having won or lost, expose their true nature. He had been attending council meetings since he had been old enough to convince the All-Father that he could listen well enough to be of some good.  
This was to be his duty, his place, when his brother ascended to the throne. He enjoyed it very much, but the degree of ceremony necessary for the proceedings could be so _tedious_ at times, and the best of counselors was only as efficient as his master’s willingness to listen.

Thor’s problem, Loki believed, and the source of all of Loki’s tribulation and woe, was that Thor had stopped listening.

The history of Asgard and the Iron Wood had been read and studied by all present, yet, according to custom, it had to be retold by both parties before the proceedings began. The Jotunn representative, the aged Maurr, had spoken for thirty minutes, a fact that apparently encouraged the Asgardian representative. He droned on, flushed with importance, ignoring the hard faces of the Jotnar and the schooled looks of his associates.

Loki, never one to waste time, used the opportunity to study the Jotunn council. He knew their names, of course. He knew everything about them there was to know. Asgard was righteous and supreme, but it did not slumber easily in ignorance. Loki knew that each man represented a union of clans, and that the People named themselves by their relationship to the center of the Iron Wood. He knew, to an extent, each man’s character and political leanings, and could ascertain through his own (not inconsiderable) power the amount of magical skill they possessed.

The room hummed with tension. The Jotunn council was divided and bristling with animosity; the Asgardians were indifferent. It was, Loki had noticed, a short-coming of the powerful.

“... and lo, Odin All-Father summoned the Jotnar to Asgard…” the representative intoned solemnly.

The doors at the far end of the chamber creaked open. A page appeared, pale-faced and stricken. He studied each face, flinching away from the thunderous expressions of the Asgardians and the amused looks of the Jotnar, and settled on Loki. He scurried along the outskirts of the room and bent to whisper in Loki’s ear.

 _Oh_ , Loki thought. _Interesting._

Loki turned his attention to the Jotunn delegation. “The lady Angrboda announces that she would join our council,” he stated. His eyes settled on Ulf. “I was made to understand that she had refused.” The elder did not speak. His dark eyes cut to the side. Holmvidr leaned forward, eagerness betrayed by his haste.

“It is her right to join, under our law. She represents the People. Her kinsman must have been mistaken.”

Helgar, a sly Asgardian and ever one to clutch at an advantage, leaned forward and indicated the empty chair across from Loki. “A place has already been set for her, Highness. It would be uncharitable to deny her.”

The page was staring, open-mouthed, at the nearest Jotunn. The elder turned and smiled at the boy, who recoiled. Loki startled him to attention with a sharp finger between the ribs. “Go and fetch the lady, page.”

Angrboda settled into her chair, and met the eyes of each person at the table in turn. “I understand that the council would have begun with a reading of the treaty and a retelling of the history between us. I am well-versed in both, and propose that you continue as you were before my interruption.”

Oleg, an Asgardian representative, glanced at his companions before leaning to address the group. “We accept this as a very efficient proposal.”

Loki could not help but notice that the Asgardian orator assigned the duty of reciting the Asgardian view of history looked a little put out. The man stood. “And lo,” he said, warming to his task once more, “the All-Father summoned the Jotnar tribes to Asgard. Four were summoned, and four came, girt round in golden chains. First came Laufey of the Frost Giants, King of Jotunheim, then came Olvadi, Father of the Stone Giants. Behind him came Aegir, false friend of Asgard and Sea King, and then, finally, Orm of the Iron Wood, the Undecided.”

The Jotnar watched with glittering eyes.

“Each of the Jotnar tribes was addressed; each punishment for their involvement in the War for the Casket of Ancient Winters separately assigned. Diplomacy prevailed on that day; through the All-Father’s grace and wisdom relationships were preserved. Of one tribe only was fealty demanded: the indecisive People of the Iron Wood. It is said that, as punishment for their neutrality, they must pledge fealty to the All-Father, and renew that pledge every millennium. In return, Asgard offers its protection and friendship.”

Loki spoke. “We are here today to define the terms of that protection and friendship.” He indicated Angrboda. “Fealty has been sworn; peaceful overtures have been made. Let us sit together in brotherhood. Speak, Jotnar, and we will listen.”

Angrboda wandered the gardens, trailed by her attendants. She came upon a small pool, blue-tiled and sparkling, and there she sat, and looked into the clear water, and brooded.

The Elders had spoken at length about the troubles affecting their people. They had outlined their need for expanded trading privileges and their desire to travel off-world. They bartered for peace between Utgard and Asgard; to end the centuries-long animosity between the two realms. Ulf, at the urging of the Elders, had sued for the return of the Casket of Ancient Winters, the Builder’s Tool - and had been all but laughed down.

The Jotnar had been reminded that they were not in a position to bargain for the return of the Builder’s Tool, and the meeting had ended for the day.

Angrboda had listened attentively. It had been no easy feat to hold her tongue; to sit quietly and watch the sneering Asgardians dispassionately respond to each of her people’s pleas. She’d studied the false Loki as he listened, and wondered where he’d hidden away her magic. 

She wondered where the Builder’s Tool was kept, and if it even yet survived.

Something flickered in the depth of the pool, bright light glinting against golden scales. A large fish circled, and another, and another, rising from the depths until they rolled and twisted just below the surface.

So golden were they, and so strange, that she forgot her troubles for a moment and laughed.

“They think you will feed them,” came the voice of Loki, and Angrboda looked up to behold him standing near. “They dance for their dinner.”

Angrboda stood. “I would cut out your lying tongue if they had not taken my dagger,” she growled. “Perhaps I will just _tear_ it out. You are false and base, and I hope my magic _burns_ you where you hold it.”

“I did not lie to you,” he hissed, and his eyes flashed. “You are whole. Did you try to use your magic?”

She blinked, mollified. “It is gone.”

Loki frowned. “It would not have been very convincing if you had danced from your bedchamber this morning without any ill effects. Do you have the figure I gave you?”

“Yes.” She had meant to throw it in a well but had forgotten in her hurry to join the council.

His eyes searched for Frigga’s women. They sat in the late afternoon sun a little ways away, speaking quietly to one another. “Work a spell.”

Shining rocks lined the flower beds. Angrboda picked one up and whispered a spell of waking against its polished surface. A twist and wiggle, and a small turtle sat in her hand. Loki watched with something like hunger in his pale eyes.

She held the rock-turtle for a moment before setting him down. He ambled away, jewel-like shell gleaming in the sun. He would live for an hour, if some larger creature did not kill him, before remembering that being a rock was more comfortable for him and return to that state. She took a deep breath, and it seemed that the fog that had surrounded her since the ceremony lifted. Her senses sharpened; the garden burst to life.

Loki was a multi-toned shadow against a backdrop of riotous color; for a moment it seemed that the only thing alive were his eyes. The pulse in his long neck fluttered, and for a moment she could hear the rush of blood pumping through his heart and the whisper of magic under his pale skin. “Careful,” he warned, and his voice was a silver thing, winding and twisting like the fish in the water. “If you change your aspect, someone _will_ notice.”

A moment, then… a breath of flower-sweetened air, and the wolf inside lay down.

Angrboda turned away from Loki and returned to the pool, the better to hide the grateful tears in her eyes. The fish returned to the surface, which seemed a very foolish thing to do. “Are they bewitched to swim so close to the surface?” she asked. “Bewitching them will alter their flavor.”

He blinked. “They are pets.”

She frowned. “What is their purpose, if you do not eat them?”

“Just as you observe. Do they not amuse you?”

She shrugged. “It is very strange to keep them, if you do not intend to eat them.”

His mouth twisted. “I do not imagine they taste very good.”

Angrboda scented the air. “You… you are laughing at me.”

“I come to parley,” Loki said, and bowed his head graciously. “I would like to show you Asgard.”

Hunvidr sat in the practice yard, watching as Palni and an Asgardian sparred. Despite their strange appearance and manner, these Asgardians were warriors, and that made it easier for Hunvidr to forget their differences. Arne and Egill sat nearby, talking quietly together.

The Asgardian warrior named Volstagg entered the yard. The man smiled as he noted the combat in the ring, and Hunvidr watched quietly until Volstagg’s eyes lit upon him, and he shouted in welcome.

“Ah, my young friend,” he said, upon approach. Volstagg had offered to match Hunvidr drink-by-drink for a wager after the tournament; Hunvidr had refused on the excuse that he did not carry Asgardian currency. The Asgardian seemed resolute to get Hunvidr deep into his cups.

“I will not make a wager with you,” Hunvidr stated sourly, and Volstagg laughed.

“You may before the sun has set. In any case, I have heard we are to hunt together in two days’ time,” the large Asgardian said, and settled his considerable bulk next to Hunvidr. “You have not lived, my boy, until you’re charging along on horse-back with the baying of the hounds in your ears. The boar provide great sport. Do you hunt on Jotunheim?”

Hunvidr could scent the amusement of Arne and Egill as they waited for him to answer. “We hunt,” Hunvidr said shortly. “We do not hunt on horseback, though.”

Volstagg nodded sagely. “Ah, you hunt small game, on foot?”

Hunvidr looked to his friends for support, but they offered none. “We… it depends.”

“It depends… on what does it depend, my friend?”

Egill chuckled, and Hunvidr frowned. “Well, if I am with my warrior brothers, then I hunt on foot. If I am with my kinsmen, we hunt as a pack.”

Volstagg was confused. “A pack… a pack of what?”

Arne spoke. “He is superstitious. He is trying to tell you without giving away his power, Asgardian. He will take wolf-shape and hunt with his kinsmen when large game is to be had.”

Volstagg’s great red beard twitched. “You… you are not always this shape, boy?”

“No,” Hunvidr said shortly. “I can take many shapes, big and small.” He glared at his comrades, and thumped his chest. “I prefer this shape.”

“Odin’s beard,” Volstagg cursed, and chuckled. “You are full of surprises.” He threw a great arm around Hunvidr’s shoulders. “You will be a great warrior one day, lad.”

A sharp shrug dislodged Volstagg’s arms from Hunvidr’s shoulders, and the young man turned his face away. Movement caught his eye; on the battlement, high above, Angrboda walked with the creature called Loki.

Hunvidr’s heart hammered in his chest. Volstagg leaned close. “I see what has you so out of sorts today, lad,” he said quietly. “She has a place in your heart, does she?”

“I have pledged my life and loyalty to her,” Hunvidr growled, and thrust his hand out toward his comrades. “We all have. She should not be forced to entertain his company.”

“Her women walk behind,” Volstagg pointed out, “and she could do worse than one of Odin’s sons.”

Hunvidr’s lip curled, and he scrambled to his feet. “They are _Asgardian_ women.”

“Sit down, Hunvidr,” Egill ordered. “Angrboda can protect herself.”

“She could,” Hunvidr retorted, “before last night.”

Palni finished his match and approached, shouldering the wooden staff that had served as his weapon. His quick eyes took in Hunvidr’s thunderous expression and Angrboda’s progress.

“On the field, Hunvidr,” he said, “lest you cause trouble enough for all of us. If you wanted to affect policy you would be sitting at the table, with your father, instead of down here in the dirt with the rest of us.”


	8. Making a Stand

Loki and Angrboda walked together. Frigga’s women followed behind, murmuring quietly to themselves. People nodded as they passed, servants and citizens of the capital come to court on business.

“Why did you bring me here?” Angrboda asked, as Loki ushered her into the throne room. It was empty except for a guard, standing watch. Odin’s seat shone in the light that poured in from the tall windows.

“I thought you might like to see it when it is empty of people. The carving of the columns is masterful.”

Angrboda stepped forward and laid a hand on the nearest column. 

Her eyes followed the carving until they came to a large mural that spread out from a central window in the roof above them. There, in brilliant color was depicted a history of Asgard, and in a prominent place was pictured Laufey, in audience with Odin All-Father.

“The Truce,” Loki noted, following her gaze.

Rendered in paint of the deepest blue, Laufey glared down at them. The Treaty was clutched in one large hand, and one leg was brought forward, as if even in portrait form he could not wait to return to Utgard.

“Have you met him?” Loki asked.

“Laufey? I have. I went with my father to Utgard. Marauders from the Stone Mountains were attacking our eastern borders. We went to ask for aid.”

“And did Laufey grant you aid?”

“What did your spies tell you?”

Loki smiled. “If there are spies in Utgard, they do not report to me.”

Angrboda considered. “The clans banded together and repelled the marauders. We lost many, my father included, but we do not owe a debt to Laufey.” 

“It is a king’s duty to protect his subjects,” Loki said, brow furrowed

“You are Asgardian, and Laufey is not as tender a king as the All-Father,” Angrboda replied. “In the First Days our people lived throughout Jotunheim, and Laufey’s people were few. They harnessed the Builder’s Tool and used it to expand their territory. We could not live in the ice and the snow, and were pushed back into the Iron Wood. We exist because Laufey’s forefathers were indifferent; there was nothing in the Iron Wood or its people that they wanted. Now we suffer because Laufey is indifferent.”

Loki’s voice was low. Angrboda felt a shimmer of magic; they would not be overheard. “I have told you before that it does Asgard little credit to see your people suffer,” he said. “We can afford to be generous. We will be generous.”

Angrboda looked up at the stern face of Laufey. “Your generosity will insult Laufey.”

Loki’s mouth twitched. “I will have to win him over in another way.”

“And Olvadi? And Aegir?”

“Yes. Olvadi and Aegir, as well.”

Angrboda pressed, curious. “You would have lasting peace, simply for its sake?”

“I would have Asgard unrivaled in sentiment and in deed,” he replied. “I would have Asgard’s praises sung by all.”

Angrboda snorted, and looked the man over. They were of a height, but he was all lean muscle and long legs. He would have been coltish in his youth, but had mastered his form as well as he had mastered his magic. She wondered if the latter was as natural as the former, or if he’d spent long, lonely centuries bent over books, hunting for knowledge. She shook herself. “Now I understand. It is not so unusual to hear an Asgardian speak of domination.”

A flash of annoyance, fire-bright, and then a carefully-schooled expression: Loki smiled.

“Why do you do that?” Angrboda asked crossly.

“Do what?”

She gestured. “Feel one thing and show another.”

Loki’s dark brows inched toward his hairline. “Feelings are fleeting,” he decided. “The consequences of allowing them to rule my judgment are not. Do you not believe this?”

Angrboda shrugged, and looked toward Frigga’s women. “That is not always our way. The Elements guide us. I think I frighten Frigga’s women, sometimes.”

“It would take more than a rage to frighten those women,” Loki said, and laughed quietly. “Do you not realize who Frigga is?”

“A gentlewoman,” Angrboda guessed, and resisted the urge to smile with him. “A lady of the court.”

“Frigga is my mother,” Loki replied, “and wife of Odin.”

Angrboda was not yet old enough to be conflicted. “She gave me her blessing,” she groused, “despite all I had to say.”

“I see it,” Loki said. “It shines on your brow like a star.” He watched as her fingertips crept toward her forehead and her dark eyes grew shuttered. 

“I feel it now,” Angrboda said softly, and smiled. “I did not notice it before.”

“She can be subtle,” Loki replied, and was struck by the delicacy of the lines that curved across her brow, illuminated by the glory of Frigga’s regard. They framed her features perfectly, and he was reminded suddenly of his youth, and of time spent tracing patterns in the pale sands of Midgard for the simple folk to find and marvel at.

Angrboda’s eyes were warm. They held Loki’s as she stepped to the next column, and laid her dark head against the stone. A smile graced her lips, and she moved away, to press an ear to another column. Loki watched this dance, enchanted by the pale length of her arms as she embraced each column.

“Can you hear them, Loki?” she asked, and her voice was melodious. 

It was an easy thing to displace himself; to appear close behind her. She startled and turned, teeth flashing white in the dim light. “What do they say, Angrboda?”

She stepped forward, pale and shining, and leaned into the nearest column. She beckoned him closer with a wave of her hand and he went easily, pressing his ear against the cool stone. “Listen,” she whispered, and her warm breath played across his jaw. He stared, rapt. “It will tell you secrets, Odin-son. Give me your hand.”

Her slender fingers twined with his, and she pressed her palm against his. Loki felt the pull of her magic, warm and earthy and mysterious, and shut his eyes.

A mountain, glowing silver-bright in the sun, hewn lovingly by an army of craftsmen and crowned in gold. Loki’s fingers spread against the stone, soaking in the warmth of a million caresses, thrilling to the loving bite of the artist’s chisel. He felt the breath of the craftsman, soft and steady; felt his pulse as he worked. A long-forgotten song filtered up through the stone and hummed into the curve of his ear: _Long is the day, my love, my sweet; around the stone is carved a wreath…_

Loki came back to himself with a shuddering gasp. Angrboda’s hand was warm in his, strong, grounding. He stared across at her, dazed, and she leaned in, and pressed her mouth to his.

It was a chaste kiss, brief and startlingly sweet, and Loki felt her decision to draw away a split second before she did. He threaded his hand through her hair and held her there for a moment longer, and pressed his own, hungry kiss against the tender curve of her mouth.

They drew apart. The unconscious way she tucked her lower lip under her teeth to taste his kiss sent heat lancing through Loki, and he caught a coal-black curl between two long fingers. 

“And so,” Angrboda sang, and her eyes were bright, “the craftsman so loved the stone that he spent all the days of his long life shaping her with chisel and mallet.” Angrboda looked up the line of the column, to where it branched and blossomed into the arch of the vaulted ceiling. Loki studied the pale column of her throat. “No seam, no crack would mar her beautiful face. The mountain gave him her secrets, and he carved this place out of living stone.” She smiled at Loki. “Did you not realize?”

“The Citadel is ancient,” Loki replied. “There are books that tell of its making, but they are so fragile that not even magic can save their crumbling pages and fading ink. The builders are forgotten.”

“You are thinking like an Asgardian,” Angrboda said softly. “The stone remembers.” She stepped away and the spell was broken, but still her eyes traveled over his features, and her lips curved sweetly when she caught his eye. “Perhaps Olvadi or one of his people can tell you more, when they come.”

She was teasing him. “I doubt it will be as sweet to pass the time with the Stone Giants as it is to tarry here with you,” Loki said gallantly, and she laughed. 

Frigga’s women approached, heads bent together in conversation, and Angrboda fixed him with a glance. Her eyes burned bright and her nostrils flared delicately. “Again, you say one thing and feel another, Loki,” she said, and smiled wolfishly at him before turning away. 

The People sat together in a low room after supper, at odds with one another. Arne and each of his warriors stood with their kinsmen. Tension laid over the room like smoke, making it difficult to breathe. 

Hunvidr watched his father. Holmvidr had goaded Ulf to once again retell why they must be reserved in making demands, and the old man had taken the bait. His arguments were waning quickly to the strength of the opposition.

“You are the only one who thinks this way, Ulf,” Maurr said. “We must at least demand Asgardian aid in repairing the trade routes from the Iron Wood to Utgard.”

“Maurr is not incorrect,” his kinsman, Palni, said. “Trade routes can be used to strengthen our defenses on the northern edge of the Wood.”

Ulf sat, resolute.

Hunvidr caught Angrboda’s scent the moment before she opened the door. She’d changed from her Asgardian clothing into the dress she’d worn from the Iron Wood. Her hair had been pulled back into heavy braids, wound through with silver ribbon.

“Talk,” she said lightly, “and more talk.”

Maurr spoke gently. “It is why we have come to Asgard, Angrboda.”

Ulf spoke. “Come and sit, Angrboda. You are our Fifth now. Decisions cannot be made without you. As your kinsman, I carry you in my heart. As your elder and leader of your clan, I charge you to listen well, and to weigh all alternatives before you speak.”

Hunvidr was not surprised that his dearest friend had chosen the path that had led her to the council table. She was in turn impulsive and deeply reflective; he knew that long years spent listening to the woes and grief of the People of the Iron Wood proved a motivation for her to seek change. The maturation of her power, sudden and violent, had created no less intense a reaction in the younger members of their party. Word would travel quickly when they returned to the Iron Wood, and that most dangerous of seeds, hope, would soon be planted.

Angrboda took her seat at the end of the table, and Hunvidr resisted the urge to go to her. The company watched as she poured wine into her cup.

Holmvidr spoke. “We have been too subtle in our demands,” he said. “Asgard has been absent too long and our people suffer for it. If we do not speak out now, then there will be no choice but to sue for assistance from Laufey-King.”

“He will not give it,” Sten, the elder from the Western clan, said in his deep and rolling voice. “Laufey has a long memory.”

“We have something to bargain with now,” Maurr said firmly. “Laufey is as strong a believer as any in the powers of Jotunheim. When he sees what the Iron Wood has wrought…”

“Angrboda is untried,” Ulf said quietly, chin sunk against his breast. “She is young. Even together, even with the power that she displayed against Odin’s son, they are not strong enough to raise Jotunheim from eternal winter. Without the Builder’s Tool, it would be folly to even attempt it.”

“I am eager to hear you, Angrboda,” Maurr said. “What do you say to the matter of the Builder’s Tool?”

Angrboda thought of the mural in the throne room, and of the treaty clutched in Laufey’s hand. “The Builder’s Tool is too great a prize to relinquish,” Angrboda said quietly. She looked at Ulf. “You said so yourself, before we left Jotunheim: ‘Every family has a claim to the Builder’s Tool.’ Then I say, every family must come to claim it.” She warmed to her thought, and smiled. “Jotunheim without the power of the Builder’s Tool is desolate; a wasteland. If Asgard would claim us, if Asgard would lead and nurture all Jotnar, then have them provide for us. Bring the People here, to their doorstep. Are there not forests on Asgard? On Vanaheim? Are there not oceans on Midgard?”

Ulf’s face was haggard. “You would have us leave Jotunheim?”

The chair legs scraped against the stone, and Angrboda stood. “Finish what my father began. Shame them. Too long have they been afraid of shadows and monsters. Show them the hunger; show them the resignation of a thousand years of deprivation. Show them the little rail-thin children of winter after a ruined harvest, and the grief of a mother’s eyes when she steps onto the rainbow bridge and sees this land of plenty.”

Hunvidr’s heart pounded. He knew that Angrboda’s magic had been bound, and yet the atmosphere in the room had altered, as if somewhere deep inside some reservoir of power had remained untapped and sympathetic to her desires. 

Quiet Egill, the warrior of the west, spoke. “Aye. Show them, fathers.” 

Holmvidr spoke carefully. “Asgard’s great folly is that it ever desires to be held above all of the other realms. What wouldn’t the All-Father do to preserve that shining standard?”

“The Asgardians believe their peace to be hard-won and absolute,” Angrboda said softly. “We are in their eyes a vanquished foe, whether or not any man or woman of the Iron Wood strode forth under Laufey’s banner a thousand years ago. Let them remind them of what it feels like to stand on the shoulders and backs of others.”

Arne spoke. His hand gripped the back of Ulf’s chair as he leaned over the elder’s shoulder. “They have forgotten. Their armor shines too brightly. Their blades are too clean.”

Ulf caught his kinsman’s arm. “It is easy for the young and untried to speak of chaos and war,” he growled, and the hair on the back of Hunvidr’s neck stood on end. “None of you are old enough to remember Laufey’s war and the grief it brought to Jotunheim. You speak fearlessly against the All-Father, _in his house,_ with no concept of the utter ruin he brought to our realm. He is eternal; he is absolute, and he will not hesitate…” His voice failed him, and he bowed his head.

Holmvidr leaned forward. “My brother, you have lived in the shadow of this fear for too long. The memory of Asgard as it was has been burned too deeply into your spirit. Listen to me when I tell you now: this is a peaceful realm, drunk on the wine of its own goodness. Hold them accountable for what they have done. Let us see what they will make of it, and then ask again for that which they are so hesitant to give.”

Long minutes passed. The council and warriors watched Ulf, and Hunvidr watched Angrboda. Her eyes were distant, unseeing, and she chewed on the skin around her thumbnail.

He had not seen her do that in a very long time.

Ulf’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “You are our Fifth, Angrboda. What do you say?”

Her dark, luminous eyes regarded him solemnly. She was still, all still, except for those eyes. “I see a fruit-bearing tree, deep in the heart of the Iron Wood,” she said. “I see Laufey-King and Odin All-Father, holding out their hands in friendship.” Her eyes flickered, and Hunvidr’s heart stopped, for it seemed, in that moment, that her eyes pierced him through. “Holmvidr must lead the council forward, kinsman.”

Ulf made a sound and Arne bent to speak in his ear. A low murmur of agreement sounded around the table, and Angrboda sat back. “It is agreed, then,” she said. “Let us have this business done quickly. We have work to do in the Iron Wood.”

In a shining garden a little turtle tumbled into a pool. In a flash it was gone, hurtling into the depths, where it was caught in the open mouth of a golden fish. The fish struggled for a moment, finding not a turtle but a heavy stone, and sank to the bottom of the pool.

The men remained, grizzled heads bent together, picking over the list of demands they’d generated long after Angrboda crossed the threshold. Hunvidr made his excuses and followed close behind. His hand at her elbow propelled her into an alcove, and there they stood, his forehead against hers and his breath ragged.

“This changes everything,” he breathed at last, and joy filtered from him to permeate the air between them. “Angrboda, this will change everything.”

“I have seen the Iron Wood in bloom, Hunvidr,” Angrboda whispered. His ebullience fizzled in her veins, and her hands tightened on his forearms to counteract the ringing in her ears. “I cannot ignore this.”

“A vision?” His eyes were bright.

Angrboda smiled. “The future.”

A scent of brine, and Hunvidr’s eyes shone. “I have imagined our future, Angrboda,” he said shyly, and lowered his forehead to rest against hers once more. “I’ve wanted to tell you so often, and now…” He withdrew slightly, and leaned in again to nuzzle behind her ear. Hunger, deep and yearning, poured from him. His hands left her shoulders to grasp at her waist, and he pushed his nose into her hair. Drunk on joy and desire, he did not recognize the way she bristled in his arms.

“You smell like that creature, Loki,” Hunvidr growled. “His magic is all over you.” His hand cradled the back of her head, possessively, and he leaned in close. “Here… did he touch you?”

She shoved him away, hard. “Leave off,” she ordered, and her teeth were sharp and white.

Hunvidr held up his hands “I do not understand,” he stammered. “I thought… I thought maybe…”

“That if I shared your policy I must share your feelings?” she asked sharply, and then softened at the sight of his stricken expression. “Oh, Hunvidr. How long?”

“Do not say anything more,” he pleaded fiercely. “Please, by the Elements, just let it go.”

A noise behind them, and Hunvidr wheeled around, automatically shepherding Angrboda behind him. “I see we are holding private counsel in shadowed corners,” Holmvidr said quietly, as his son muffled a curse. “A message has arrived; the fat Asgardian has organized entertainment for his newfound Jotnar brothers. Arne has summoned you.”

“I never imagined you would become an errand boy for Arne,” Hunvidr said tersely, and his father fixed him with a steely eye. 

“Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I find I’ve lost a good number of things this evening,” Hunvidr ground out, and glanced at Angrboda. But for a moment, his dark eyes were anguished. “I beg your pardon, Father.”

“It is so easily given to my only son,” Holmvidr growled, and stepped aside as Hunvidr strode past. “His ire is up,” he commented, and his eyes narrowed as he regarded Angrboda. “What have you been saying to one another?” 

“Discussing the future,” she answered softly. “You have left the council meeting.”

“There is nothing more to discuss,” Holmvidr said. “The amendments to the peace treaty will be delivered tomorrow morning, and the Asgardians will have a day to respond.” His stern features softened. “The others are comforting Ulf. I thought it would be gracious to withdraw.”

Grief twisted in her gut.

“There is no room for sentimentality in politics, my lady,” Holmvidr said, and his deep voice resonated in the little alcove. “If you would see our people prosper then you must be willing to do any number of things to reach that end.” The corner of his thin mouth twisted. “To be honest, child, I did not think you had the stomach for it.”


	9. Agreements Made

Angrboda found, after all, that she did not have the stomach for politics, and spent the night wakeful and weeping. Morning found her bleary-eyed and withdrawn, and she hid in the garden until Loki found her and drew her out.

Out of the garden and down into the shipyard they went, where he asked the master for a pretty little craft much like the ship that had carried them from the Bifrost to the Citadel. Into the ship he bundled her and off they went. 

If Loki guessed at her heartsickness he did not say, only glided the craft out over the shining water. The weather was fair enough, and on the water, with the wind rushing by, it was almost comfortable for Asgardian summer. He kept the craft at a steady pace, winding along the quay, weaving through the busy harbor until reaching open water. Angrboda leaned over the side of the craft to watch the prow of the boat cut through the clear water, and some of her heartache eased.

The craft rose into the air, and Angrboda turned to look at Loki. He stood in the stern of the boat, his hand on the rudder. The outline of the busy harbor receded until there was nothing but sky.

He smiled to see her staring and urged the craft onward. “Would you like to fly?” he asked. 

Angrboda looked at the controls of the craft, at the great rudder and oars he manipulated with ease. “Will you teach me?”

“Gladly,” he replied, “but that is not what I meant.” He nodded towards the horizon where a great sea-bird soared on soot-tipped wings. “Would you like to _fly_?” 

_To fly_ , she thought. _To be weightless and free, if only for a moment._ The first aspect she had ever adopted was that of an eagle, and had so taken to soaring over the Iron Wood that her father forbade it, lest she lose memory of her true self.

“I think,” Loki said quietly, as if once again he’d been privy to her innermost thoughts, “that flying offers a perspective afforded to few.”

Angrboda looked out over the water. The citadel gleamed in the distance. It would be easy to forget, for awhile, the guilt that troubled her. “Would that we all could see so clearly.” Loki stepped away from the controls and settled near her, and she took the hand he offered. “Holmvidr will lead the council.”

Loki’s face was still. “What of your kinsman, Ulf?”

The wind blew her hair forward, and she pushed it back impatiently. “Fear dictates his policy. He fears the All-Father, and is right to do so, but it paralyzes him. Too long have we lived in the shadows.” Her face darkened. “I led the vote against him.”

The heartache that plagued her surfaced once more, and Loki held tight to her hand. Perhaps it was as he had said, she thought, that feelings were fleeting. So she sat with him until it passed, and did not gnash her teeth or tear at her hair for the betrayal of her kinsman.

Again the wind came, and his hands stilled hers for an instant before reaching up and twisting magic through the strands of her hair, so that they lay sleek and smooth and docile. She let him linger over it for a moment before undoing his work with a twist of her fingers. 

Loki huffed, amused, and his eyes scanned her features. He tilted his head down, and she turned to meet him, wanting the hungry, demanding press of his mouth against hers. 

“Come fly with me,” he whispered, warm breath against her jaw, and those strange eyes were half-lidded, watching from under dark lashes. She trembled and knew he could feel the space between them charge with it, knew he could hear her soft inhalation despite the low thrum of the motor. Long fingers brushed against her jaw, holding her still.

He kissed her tenderly, pressed light kisses along the delicate curve of her upper lip to the rhythm of the wind that gently rocked the little craft. She shifted, impatient, seeking more, but he drew back to press his forehead against hers.

Angrboda drew a shuddering breath, and Loki smiled. “Come and fly with me, Angrboda,” he coaxed, and his hands cradled her jaw.

“Yes,” she breathed, and he sighed, pleased, and nuzzled once into her curls before drawing away. 

Loki held out his hand and reached with the left, possessive, reshaping the air around her until she felt it press in, close, closer still, until the whole of her being was compressed. A moment of panic, her heart fluttering, and then the current caught her, and she flew.

Loki gave her a falcon’s form to match his own, and together they soared high above the waves, twisting and gamboling in the bright Asgardian sky. At times she flew alone as he stooped and rolled, and other times they would lock talons and drop together toward the waves, breaking apart at the last moment to climb once more. Time had little meaning in this form, and Angrboda would have been content to soar and swoop forever over golden Asgard, bright-eyed and coppery, feeding on fat pigeons, but at last Loki dove toward the water and did not return, and she saw him in the prow of the little boat, dark-haired and waiting, arms outstretched, with the sunlight caught in the golden embroidery on his sleeves.

“Come back to me,” he said, and she felt rather than heard, and down she stooped, gathering speed. Her wings caught the air and she hovered for a final moment before coming to rest on his outstretched arm.

“You are very pretty like this,” he said, and her falcon’s-eye caught the glowing nimbus of power that crowned his dark head. “Very pretty, but I think I prefer you as yourself, Angrboda.”

It was her name that drove her back into herself, undid the making until she stood before him with the taste of magic burning her tongue. His eyes were drawn to her mouth, and she knew he could sense his magic there, caught like a breath of cold air waiting to be expelled.

The wind flung a lock of his dark hair forward against his cheek. The last of the falcon’s impulses lingered, and she saw it clearly in the golden sunlight, raven’s-wing black set to riot against living pearl.

Loki’s hand curled around her wrist, and she knew that he saw as she did. His gaze traveled over her features, and she imagined the riot of color he saw there as his senses adjusted. Her eyes smoky and burning, pale cheeks flushed with the warmth of the day and the strong emotions she held in check. She felt the touch of his gaze on her hair, the marks on her forehead, the weight nearly tangible as he followed a bead of sweat as it disappeared beneath the embroidered collar of her gown.

“So alive,” he said reverently, and his eyes met hers for a moment before settling once again on the curve of her mouth. He swallowed. “Do you intend to keep that to yourself?”

She drew in a soft breath and released it. “Perhaps I will take your magic back to the Iron Wood with me,” she said, “and bury it at the base of a hungry tree. A word of making and it will seep into the roots, binding itself with bark and branch and sap.”

Loki drew her close. “And what strange fruit would it bear, Angrboda?” he asked softly, and lowered his head. His long hand lay against her jaw, warm and careful, and he pressed his lips to her temple.

“That is not yet known to me,” she whispered, and felt his smile against her skin. She turned into him, seeking, but the slow brush of his thumb against the corner of her mouth stilled her.

Then, carefully, his mouth at her temple again, and at the corner of her jaw, and lower still, until he was pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to her neck. Her breath caught and he hummed against her skin _yes, darling, I know_ and all the while the feather-light movement of his thumb against the corner of her mouth caused the remnant of his magic within to pulse and tingle on the curve of her tongue.

He kept her there, in the in-between place, caught between his mouth and hands, until he lifted his head and slid his mouth over hers. A weight seemed to settle over her, and she gave over to it, focus drifting, aware only of the warmth of him and the heady pleasure that sang through her body as he coaxed the breath from her.

Her hands held fast to him as he withdrew, and he pressed another, softer kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“There,” he murmured, gentle, solicitous. “All done.”

“I would have been less resistant to the idea of you taking my magic if I’d known you could do it that way,” she said shakily, and he chuckled.

“Dark humor, darling,” he breathed, and she nuzzled into the sun-warmed scent of him. A shadow then, or two, cutting between the sun and the little boat, and Loki took a deep, shuddering breath, and raised his head to search the skies before lowering his forehead to hers.

“We should return,” he murmured, and she sighed, and stroked his smooth cheek with a trembling hand.

“Why now?”

Loki smiled, and she brushed her thumb against the corner of his mouth. “My father searches for me,” he replied. “I can avoid him for only so long. Heimdal’s gaze is nearly on us.”

Angrboda spared a thought for the golden-eyed watcher, and Loki pressed an apologetic kiss to her thumb. 

“Come, my bright-eyed beauty,” he said, “and I will teach you how to pilot this craft, and perhaps we will have time to walk in the garden together before duty finds us again.”

They did walk together in the garden, and share stolen moments in hidden bowers. Loki at last went to Odin, and Angrboda wandered awhile before returning to the relative cool of her quarters.

A bath, and a seat before a brazier brought in by the women. A handful of herbs from the Iron Wood went into the flames, and Angrboda sat back and dreamed. She found herself walking through the Iron Wood’s brief spring, the ground damp and fertile beneath the soles of her feet. A mild breeze played through the leaves of the trees, and she stopped before a fruit tree, heavily-laden with blossoms. 

_Promise,_ Angrboda’s witch-form whispered to the unburdened Angrboda of Spring. _Heavy with promise._

The breeze dislodged a blossom, and the dream Angrboda caught it in the palm of her hand. It changed, petals curling up, and in the center appeared an apple, pale and perfect.

A noise in the antechamber brought Angrboda back to Asgard, and she smothered the flames. 

“Playing at prophecy?” Holmvidr asked, and his nostrils flared at the smell of herb and root. He crossed the threshold at her invitation, adjusting the weight of the chain of office that hung around his neck. “I believed your magic to be bound.”

“I do not need magic to prophesize,” Angrboda retorted. Holmvidr settled himself across from her, and she reached forward to coax the flames back to life.

“Well then, prophetess, tell me our future.”

It was a challenge, and Angrboda recognized it as such. Ulf knew her better than she knew herself; had trained and mentored her for years. Holmvidr was an outsider. Electing him as leader of the council and her adviser had been an impulse, a push between the shoulder blades by the Elements, who so often led folk down twisted and dangerous paths.

She knew that she must guard herself.

Angrboda threw another handful of herbs on the coals. “What would you have me say?”

Holmvidr’s eyes narrowed; he was canny, and would not be so easily led astray. “What do you see?”

Angrboda twisted the air above the flames, braiding them into shapes. The heavy scent of the herbs filtered up from the brazier. She did not speak for a long while, only hummed and murmured to herself, until Holmvidr was certain she had fallen into the future.

He sat quietly, unwilling to break the heavy silence of the room. Light chased shadow across her delicate features, and he thought of his lovelorn son. If her father had lived, if his older, sorely-missed sons had lived, then he would gladly have given Hunvidr his blessing to pursue her.

She was too powerful now; too important. He would barter her to Laufey, and seek to unite Jotunheim through marriage as he had once thought to unite the Iron Wood. It amused him, when he remembered her uncooperative policy and shrewish tongue, to think of her freezing in Utgard, playing a sullen but dutiful wife to the ancient Laufey.

“Holmvidr,” Angrboda said suddenly, her voice sharp. She leaned forward and, at his startled intake of breath, blew a waft of herb-scented air directly into his face.

Her eyes galvanized him; he struggled for a moment and then gave over, cartwheeling forward into the vision that beckoned.

_The edge of the Iron Wood, frost melting away from the licking flames against the night sky... A great burst of power, white-hot and terrible, raging on the northern horizon... The People, united, drawing strength up from the land and transforming it into a great shield that spread over the tops of the trees... The power hurtling on, tearing apart the land, pushing onward until…_

Holmvidr came back to himself, gasping. His hands tore at the front of his robes, and he staggered to his feet and to the window. He leaned out, clutching against the frame, drawing in great draughts of fresh air. “What did you show me?” he choked.

Angrboda’s voice was biting. “You betray your ignorance,” she retorted. “ _I_ do not show you anything. The Elements have given this gift to you.”

“Laufey will betray us,” Holmvidr breathed. 

Angrboda smothered the fire. “That is one interpretation.”

The Elder started. “What other interpretation can there be?”

Angrboda shrugged. “I saw a people united against a common foe,” she said. “I saw the Iron Wood yield its secrets. I saw a wolf waiting on the eastern edge of our land and a dread power in the north. Did you not see these things?”

Holmvidr set his robes to rights and returned to his chair. “I saw only the conflict.” He shuddered. “It was… a symbol?”

“It is rare to see the future as it will be,” Angrboda said softly. She stood and crossed to the sideboard. “You seek to unite Jotunheim. You are sure of Laufey.”

“I was not before,” Holmvidr confessed, and accepted the wine she offered him. “We had nothing to offer him. When he hears of the strength you showed here, it will encourage him. He will remember the power sleeping under the Iron Wood, and when the Builder’s Tool is returned to us…”

“When?” Angrboda prompted.

“The Asgardian Council has accepted a number of our amendments to the treaty,” he said, and lifted the glass in salute before bringing it to his lips. “The Builder’s Tool is in negotiation.”

Angrboda reached blindly for a chair and lowered herself into it.

“It is as we supposed. Asgard has changed,” Holmvidr continued. “Oh, the arrogance is the same, but the desire to appear wise and benevolent is stronger than ever. They will never part with the Tool willingly, but the idea of being seen to grasp and clutch at it is repugnant to them. So they will dither, and fumble, and all the while we will be waiting.”

 _For new leadership_ , Angrboda thought. A clever enemy could mold a young king as easily as an ally. Her pact with Loki could only strengthen their position.

“Will you lead the negotiation?”

“No,” Holmvidr replied. “You and I will return to the Iron Wood. Ulf has agreed to stay, and Arne with him.”

“Explain.”

The leader studied his glass. “Ulf is brilliant and compassionate, but single-minded,” he said patiently. “They will be driven to accommodate him, but find themselves unable to do so. Some equally compassionate and single-minded Asgardian minister will be assigned the task of negotiating with him, and they will keep negotiations open until real change can happen.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have been involved with inter-realm politics since before you were born, child. It is my life’s work. I do not need the gift of prophecy in order to speculate. I have eyes and ears.”

Angrboda considered. “What happens now?”

Holmvidr raised his empty glass, and reached out to pour himself more wine. “Feasting and merry-making,” he replied. “The Asgardians will celebrate their magnanimity while we celebrate our endurance and foresight. Your magic will be returned to you. There is a hunt being organized, and you have been invited to attend with the men.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” Holmvidr replied, and lifted the goblet to his lips. He smiled, teeth bared and stained by the wine. “We will let the ink dry before we set the wolves of the Iron Wood loose in their forests.”

Stars hung in the vaulted Asgardian sky by the time Hunvidr and his companions had visited the third public house, deep in the heart of the city that spread out from the foot of the great citadel. The drink was mild but copious, and Hunvidr had long since ceased to exercise caution in his search for information about Asgard’s younger prince.

 _Silvertongue. Trickster. Prince of Lies. God of Mischief. Loki._ The same stories had been repeated, with equal measure of gusto and fear, from the lips of drunken men and laughing women. Again, and again, he slurred his questions into the smoky air, hearing all, remembering the worst of it.

Hunvidr staggered out into the street, seeking relief. An alleyway, lengthy shadows, with the flap of forgotten laundry overhead, and he found it. He stepped back after a moment, putting himself to rights, and turned toward the noise of the pub.

A step, and then another, and then the sharp edge of a blade at his throat.

“You’ve been invoking my name all evening,” a voice said evenly. “Did you expect I wouldn’t notice?”

_Loki._

The blade withdrew. “What do you want, Odin-son?” Hunvidr asked with effort.

Loki stepped into a circle of light, hands open and emtpy, but still very much armed. “I could ask the same of you.” His expression was still, expectant, and Hunvidr struggled to swallow.

“Why do you force the lady Angrboda to entertain your company?” Hunvidr grated.

A smile tugged at the corner of the Asgardian’s mouth. “Do you lay claim to her?”

“No,” emphatically, struggling to keep focus.

Loki’s smile widened. “Ah, but you _do_ ,” Loki appraised, and his eyes narrowed. “You are positively thrumming with it, and yet… such _frustration._ She has denied your advances.”

“You’ve poisoned her mind,” Hunvidr panted. “This place has poisoned her against me.” His hand instinctively clutched for the hilt of his sword, and came up grasping and empty. He cursed diplomacy, and wiped a shaking hand over his brow. Loki’s eyes saw it all.

“When was it that you first desired her?” he goaded softly. “What cherished memory drives you? A smile, a laugh? Or perhaps it was the sight of her, bare-faced and panting, pinned underneath me on the field? Perhaps you thought it should be you between her thighs, holding all that strength and chaotic power in check? I tell you, Hunvidr: I have tasted her kiss, and she is as sweet and dark as late summer honey, and so _biddable.._ ”

Hunvidr surged forward, only to meet with thin air. Loki’s laugh came softly from behind.

“You are filthy. False,” Hunvidr spat, spinning around, and frustration and power sang within him. He called for the wolf; felt its shape move through and around him. “I do not need my sword to kill you, Asgardian!”

A door opened, and light spilled into the alley. A man and woman stumbled across the threshold, laughing together over some joke or jest. The sight of the man’s hand clutching at her waist, the woman’s scream as the light from the pub poured over Hunvidr’s transformation sent his senses reeling, and he lost the tenuous hold that kept the wolf’s instincts in check. 

_Run. Hunt. Kill._ The wolf spun, unused to narrow alleys and Asgardian refuse, disoriented, dangerous. The woman screamed again, and the wolf fixed on the point. 

A shout of warning came. Strong arms wrapped around the wolf’s middle, pulling it off-course, and another pair of arms wrapped around its neck. “No, brother,” a low voice urged. “Not here. Not now.”

 _Egill._ Hunvidr wept within, and the wolf’s rage abated. It lay on its side, grounded by the weight of Egill and Palni, sides rising and falling as it relaxed into deep, even breaths. Hunvidr was aware distantly of Arne and Volstagg, voices low and reassuring. The man and woman retreated, and the noise of the pub was once again muffled and distant. Of Loki, the trickster, there was no sign.

“By Odin’s thunderous left tit,” Volstagg swore, and Hunvidr-Wolf rolled his eye until the giant Asgardian came into focus. “You must learn to hold your drink, boy.”

Egill spoke across the wolf’s flank to Palni. “He should not be here. We must find somewhere for him until he changes back.”

Volstagg squatted down. His hand, like the flipper of a seal, braced against the wall. Hunvidr-Wolf’s ears flickered at the sound of the foundation creaking. “What do you mean by this?” he asked. “Why can he not change back?”

“A wolf knows no comfort without his pack,” Palni explained. “With no kinsman here to anchor him, he will remain in this form until the wolf lets him go. Hunvidr is still young and the wolf is strong. It will not let go easily.”

The Asgardian frowned. “His father is on the council. We must go to him.”

Hunvidr-wolf growled. “No,” Arne said firmly. “We will not go to his father.”

“Yet he cannot stay with us in the barracks,” Palni stated. “And he cannot stay here.” The Jotunn turned and fixed Volstagg with a black eye. 

Volstagg shook his head. “I have many small children at home,” he muttered, “and a formidable wife. Putting even his most basic… instinct aside, there is simply no room for a… for this. He is nearly the size of a horse.”

Egill spoke. “The Asgardian forest. Is it heavily populated?”

“A few homesteads,” Volstagg replied.

Arne nodded. “Take us there.” 

Asgardian night stretched on, warm and fragrant, before Angrboda decided to retire. Frigga’s women had long since gone to their rest, and left their charge to sit by the brazier and weave patterns and spells.

A noise came from the balcony, a flutter of wings, and then the rush of a familiar scent. 

“Do Asgardians always call so late?” Angrboda asked, and Loki chuckled. 

“It is in my nature to be clandestine,” he responded.

“Come inside where I can see you.”

“Are you decent?”

“What does that mean?” 

“Are you dressed for visitors?”

Angrboda looked down at the thin shift she wore for sleeping. “Dressed enough for the field of battle,” she replied, and was rewarded with Loki’s laugh in her ear.

It was disconcerting, to have the sense-memory of his being on the balcony war with the feeling of his hands on her shoulders. She closed her eyes, relaxing into his grasp, and was rewarded with the slow slide of his thumb at the base of her neck.

“Your council was busy last night,” he murmured, and his breath played along the edge of her ear. “Impatient, aren’t we?”

“Would you be any less impatient, if your people had suffered for a millennium?”

“Shh,” he soothed, and his fingertips traced the raised lines on her bare shoulders. “I did not come to criticize. It was worth the surprise to see the old men fumble before the All-Father.”

Angrboda smiled. “I cannot believe you have come at this time of night to discuss the political gains of my people,” she sighed, and he looped his arms around her waist.

“No,” he admitted. “What spells are you working?”

“Calling out to the Elements,” she replied. “Seeking good fortune for the festivities tomorrow. Peace for my friends and kinsmen. Success for all our ventures.”

“Busy, busy,” he tutted, and nuzzled at her hair. “And what of the future?”

She threaded her fingers through his and watched the flames leap and twist. “I do not look too closely, and I do not always share what I see.” She twisted in his arms and pressed a kiss to his lips, to soften the bite of her words. She thought of Hunvidr’s stricken face, and the smile she wore faltered.

“You are troubled,” Loki said, and lifted a hand to push the curls back from her face. His fingers lingered at the edges of her clan markings. “What disturbs your peace?”

“Everything was simple in the Iron Wood,” Angrboda disclosed. “There was only survival, clan politics; here you have given me hope for the future, and I know not what to do with it.”

“These are not unreasonable thoughts for someone who just recently discovered that the future is much larger than she ever imagined,” Loki murmured, and his eyes were luminous.

“You would have us prosper and I cannot tell them,” Angrboda sighed. “Our closest ally, and they cannot know.”

“Only an ally?”

The fabric of the structured tunic Loki wore was soft and textured, and she gave in to its whispered request to brush and caress with her fingertips. He’d bathed recently; the hair that curled over his collar was still damp. She had a vision, as his hand stroked down her spine, of clear drops clinging to his eyelashes.

“You came here to seduce me,” Angrboda accused. 

“Is it working?” 

“We do not practice seduction in the Iron Wood,” she replied, and pressed her forehead to his. _Close. So close._ “We speak plainly.”

His eyes struggled to focus on hers for a moment before drifting shut. “And what do you say?”

She smiled, and felt his answering smile in the hand that cradled his jaw. 

“You talk too much,” she breathed. _There,_ his amusement, bubbling to the surface like water from an underground spring, infused with something dark and sweet that left her head reeling.

“I think you like it when I speak,” Loki said softly. The words twined themselves around and through Angrboda’s senses and sent a tremor down her spine. His fingers traced its passing and splayed, warm and possessive, at the small of her back. “Ah,” he murmured, and his whole, long form swayed with hers, “but you _do_.” 

Her breath caught, and he turned to press slow, ardent kisses against her fingers and palm. Time seemed to stop. She was deeply aware of him: of the careful movement of his jaw as he kissed her, the warmth of his lips and breath in her hand, caught in each eddy and whorl of her skin, warming her through until she thought she would combust.

The sudden loss and then the immediate, demanding pull of his mouth against the pulse point in her wrist caused her to knock her forehead against his jaw and draw a choked breath against the long line of his throat. Her fingertips pressed compulsively against his skin, tracing along the line of his collar, and she felt energy spark there.

He made a sound, deep in his throat, and covered her mouth with his. Demanding, in turns playful and slow but never losing momentum, his kisses charged the energy between them until she felt full to the brim with it, panting and wrecked and perched on the edge of something sublime.

She groaned, and felt his answer, deep under where her fingers pressed to his chest. “My hair is standing on end,” he murmured, and bit gently at her throat. Long hands shaped the air around her, and she could feel the brush of his fingers against the ends of her hair through her scalp and down into her fingers and toes. “As is yours. Your power sings to me, darling. Can you hear it?”

By the Elements, she could. It soared in counterpoint to the deep thrum of his own, filling the space between and around them. Over-sensitized, she slid her arms around his neck, and he caught her up and gave at last into the demand to carry her along the few remaining feet to the bed.

He paused at the edge of the bed, and she kissed him. “You are like fire,” he whispered, and his eyes were wide and startled and beautiful.

Down, down, in a tumble of arms and legs, and she hitched her shift a little higher, to coax him into the cradle of her thighs.

A moment stretched into a thousand, into the tangle of breath and movement. He bared himself to her, and gave her the weight and rhythm of his body as he traced the marks on her skin with soft lips and shuddering breath. _A thousand moments, just like this,_ she thought dazedly, lost in scent and taste and the cool brush of fingertips over skin. _I would take these moments and keep them forever, like this_ and thought dissolved into murmurs and sighs until his tongue slid slowly between the marks on her collarbone and everything broke into fractious light.

He dozed, heavy and sweet, in her arms. She traced whorls and patterns onto his pale skin, and he lifted a heavy eyelid to gaze at her.

“Would you have me be Jotunn?” he murmured, turning into her touch.

Angrboda smiled, and let herself be drawn down by the weight of the long arm he slid around her shoulders. “I would have you be yourself, Loki, and nothing more.”

She woke to the sound of the women in the antechamber. Loki had gone, and in his place lay a bell forged in the Iron Wood. Angrboda smiled, and rose to greet the morning.


	10. The Hunt Begins

Having Loki in her bed pleased Angrboda. The negotiations for the return of the Builder’s Tool pleased Angrboda. There was nothing, on that bright, Asgardian summer morn that did not shine and glimmer and sparkle with the all-encompassing joy she felt.

She wandered down into the practice yard and barracks, intent on finding Hunvidr before the hunting party assembled. Surely he would see reason. There was nothing truly keeping them from enjoying the same friendship they always had. He’d expressed himself, told her of his desire for her. That she did not share such desires should be secondary. They would work together to find him a suitable substitute: one of her kinswomen, perhaps. She would have to reassure him, charm him; she would have to let him know that she still found him valuable.

Arne was sitting in the sunshine of the tilting yard with Ulf. They did not speak as she approached, but watched her. The air between them was heavy with conversation interrupted.

“Good morning, kinsmen,” Angrboda said. Arne stood and came to embrace her.

“Cousin,” he said kindly. “Come and sit.”

Angrboda eyed Ulf. He sat, wrapped in his moss green robes, so familiar and dear against the foreign backdrop of Asgard that tears pricked her eyes. He held out his hand to her and she went willingly, and knelt at his feet.

“What’s this?” he said, and pressed his weathered hand to her cheek. “Tears? You should be celebrating. Do you think me so poor a statesman that I will fail to accomplish the task set to me?”

“Does it not grieve you to have lost your place as council leader?” Angrboda asked, and grew fierce. “I was disloyal to you, Uncle, and I…”

Ulf interrupted. “And now you think that I am hurt? I will disown you? Send you away? You are still very much a child, my dear.” His lined face broke into a gentle smile, and Angrboda’s heart soared to see it. “I am not such a proud man. I only wish that you had confided in me.”

Angrboda reached out for him, and he gathered her up to sit on the bench beside him. “I did not see it until it happened, Uncle,” she said quietly, and her head rested on his shoulder for a moment, long enough only to feel the familiar texture of the wool of his robes and the strong frame underneath. “If I had come to you and suggested that Holmvidr lead, would you have supported me?” 

“I do not know which way the Elements would have led me,” Ulf said quietly. “They do not always speak to me.” Ulf was silent for a long while. Arne sat beside them and eavesdropped as Volstagg met with the keeper of the hounds. The little Asgardian smelled of dog. He was hurt that his services were not required, and confronted the enormous warrior in recriminating tones. 

“I pray the Elements will give you comfort here,” Angrboda said stoutly. “I pray they will give you _both_ comfort.”

“Those days are still far enough away for me to let them rest,” Arne replied, turning away from the drama unfolding across the yard and focusing once more on his kinsmen. “Hunvidr has greater need of the Elements’ help than I. I am glad to see you, cousin, for I had planned to come find you before we rode out.”

 _Hunvidr._ “What has happened to Hunvidr?” Angrboda asked quietly, though her voice was far from even. Her eyes searched the practice field, and the shadows of the barracks, and she lifted her head to scent at the air. “Why is he not here?”

“He has taken wolf form,” Arne said slowly, and his jet-black eyes were knowing. “Last night. The wolf took him, and took him hard. He would not say what troubled him, but he asked after Loki to every Asgardian we met. He drank like a man whose heart was broken.”

Angrboda felt as if a stone had suddenly formed in her throat. A chorus of calls and noise from the far end of the field announced the arrival of more members of the hunting party. Their people, Palni and Egill, were eyeing the horses and conversing with Volstagg.

“Where is he?” she choked.

“We took him to the outskirts of the forest, so that he would not harm any Asgardians he met.” Angrboda stood, and Arne reached out to wrap his strong hand around her wrist. “There were two Asgardians who were frightened by him in the heart of the city. Volstagg paid them handsomely. He is a friend.”

She tugged away from him, and threw an arm out toward the gathering party. “And now we are set to hunt in that same forest,” she stated. “If the wolf has taken Hunvidr, and I have little doubt it has, then it may very well be that these Asgardians will be the ones who are hunted. What will they do when he attacks? What will they do when they find the traces of his passing?” She shook her head. “No, I do not like this. We must go to the master of the hunt and end this.”

“Angrboda,” Ulf replied. “What will the Asgardians do when they discover that Hunvidr broke the terms of the treaty? The use of magic was forbidden after your sacrifice. They will say we cannot be trusted. It will be used as an excuse to forfeit all of the gains made by the council.”

“We cannot leave one of our own to suffer,” Angrboda growled. “Not Hunvidr.”

“And we will not,” Arne soothed. “Hunvidr-wolf will not welcome us as members of his pack, but we will get close enough to subdue him before the party ever draws near. Your magic is to be restored; you can reach Hunvidr and help him return to his Jotunn form. Palni, Egill, and Volstagg will do their part. They will delay the party.”

Angrboda eyed the assembled. Hardened warriors and horsemen appeared to be outnumbered by sleek-faced nobles, breathless with excitement, unsteady on their spirited and well-bred steeds. In the midst was a young man, scarcely more than a boy, trussed up in Asgardian riding gear and looking around himself with wide eyes. “This is not a hunt,” Angrboda scoffed. “This is entertainment. We cannot lead these people into the forest, Arne.”

“This is not the Iron Wood,” he argued, “and we would outpace the quickest of them even without the restraining hand of our friends. Trust us, Angrboda. This is the best way.”

Loki watched from horseback as Angrboda and her kinsmen crossed the practice yard. They were a striking trio, with the hoary elder at their center, something out of a story book he half-remembered from the candle-lit evenings of his youth. Angrboda was clad in a vest and leggings, all long legs and strong, pale arms, and his heart thudded as his mind wandered to more recent, more _carnal_ events.

The trio approached, pausing now and then to speak with a member of the party. Angrboda had explained early that morning, in between kisses peppered across his chest, that it would be necessary for them to acquaint themselves with the sight and scent of the hunters and horses, lest the wolves inside be tempted during the madness of the chase.

The elder, Ulf, passed near. His eyes did not wander from their path, and yet Loki felt the old man’s awareness like a chill wind. Loki dismounted, and spoke to the warrior Arne as he stopped to greet the horse. “Do you hunt boar on Jotunheim?”

Arne’s expression did not change, and his voice was cordial, but he did not meet Loki’s eyes as he turned to continue on his way. “On Jotunheim, the boar hunt _us_ , Highness.”

Loki recalled Arne from the alley; how he had looked all around for an enemy as he rushed to the young fool Hunvidr’s aid. There had been an uncomfortable moment when Loki was certain he’d been seen, but the man’s eyes had passed on, and he’d focused his attention on his monstrous friend. Loki had watched the scene with interest: the grief and worry on the men’s faces, Volstagg’s bellowing, and the sad, bewildered eyes of the boy turned wolf. 

It had been a little less straightforward than he typically liked, but it had been effective. He had expected an argument, a chance to make the fellow look foolish, but had apparently triggered a depth of power the young man did not realize he possessed. 

He had not told the lovely Angrboda of the exchange with Hunvidr; had thought only to woo her and have her. He had told himself, before going to see her, that she would be on her way to Jotunheim before she learned of the argument between Hunvidr and himself, and by then it would not matter.

Loki realized, as she approached, eyes bright, that it still very much mattered.

She came to stand with him, and placed her hand on his horse’s neck. “He’s beautiful,” she said, and then her eyes cut to Loki’s, and she said quietly, “This is a perilous venture. My friend Hunvidr is not himself and suffers alone in the forest.”

Loki, who found himself a sudden fool for the way her jaw lifted as she murmured to the fretting horse, asked, “How can I help?”

The smile that softened her stern features sent a low _thrum_ through his veins, instantaneously smothering the regret that had surfaced at his offer of assistance. “Help us find him?”

“Any way I can, my lady,” he said, and allowed his hand, for the briefest of moments, to cover hers where it rested against the horse’s shoulder.

There was some ceremony, and a measure of pomp, for the elders of both councils had come to see them off. Loki stood at the fore, with Angrboda next to him, and, with a measure of drama and flair, ceremonially returned her magic. He turned her away from the crowd, and, as the dust cleared, she rolled her eyes at him and permitted him to press a noisy kiss to each cheek.

Down they went from the tilting yard, through the gates of the citadel, and down onto a well-worn road. The Jotnar warriors rode at the head of the column with Volstagg, and traded songs back and forth with their new friend. Angrboda rode beside Loki on a skittish mare, whose dapple gray coat reminded her of lichen on the bark of an Iron Wood tree. They did not speak, though the noise of the hunting party swelled and diminished around them, for Angrboda’s heart was heavy. Twice she caught him watching her, and once he caught her studying his profile, and smiled warmly.

Trees grew tall and clean in the forests of Asgard, unlike the moss-covered, stunted growth of Iron Wood. It was an ancient forest, Angrboda surmised as Loki escorted her forward, but it bore its old age without any sign of bitterness or despair. Things grew and flourished easily there.

“The undergrowth is thick,” Arne commented, as he approached. “It will be slow-going for the horses.”

“The party will advance on foot,” Loki replied. His strange eyes glowed. “We typically rely on our dogs to flush out the large game.”

Arne snorted like a bull, and his great, black beard bristled. Angrboda spoke. “Enough posturing. If Hunvidr suffers as deeply as I fear, then we will need all our allies to bring him home safely.”

Loki returned to the head of the column, and Angrboda stepped into place next to Arne. The crowd murmured; horses stomped and nickered. “To Hunvidr,” Angrboda stated, and Arne nodded.

“To Hunvidr,” he replied quietly.

Angrboda’s heart pounded. The wolf inside, docile for too long, waited expectantly. She turned to look at Egill and Palni, who returned her gaze evenly, and at Volstagg, who did not. The forest loomed ahead, warm and scented and beckoning. Somewhere, in that strange wood, Hunvidr roamed. She had prayed, with every footfall of the borrowed horse she rode, that some part of him remained to bargain with. Hunvidr was a gifted warrior, knowledgeable enough to be able to siphon away his magical strengths into small enchantments. He lacked the strength and discipline to maintain a powerful enchantment; to hold himself apart from the wolf’s instincts and drive. 

A horn sounded, and the voices of the party grew into a cheer. “Ready?” Arne asked quietly. She had the greater speed; he would defer to her lead as they hunted together.

“Ready,” Angrboda said, and took a deep breath.

Angrboda as a Jotunn woman was striking, but Angrboda in the form of a wolf was awe-inspiring. Her wolf form was corporeal, but wreathed around with wards and spells, so that she was nearly as large as Loki’s horse. Her legs were long, and her fur was a deep red against the black of her kinsman’s. He was larger and heavier, and a low rumble sounded from his chest.

Loki’s horse shied as Angrboda turned to regard him with yellow eyes, and he heard the disquiet that glance spread through the party. He beckoned for his groom and slipped down off of his horse. “Take him back,” he ordered quietly.

Volstagg protested. “Loki,” he began, and stopped to subdue his horse when Angrboda-wolf stepped forward. Loki approached cautiously, wary of those amused, curious eyes, and addressed Volstagg and the Jotnar. 

“I will act as scout,” he announced and, with a rush of glamour, transformed himself into a sleek crow. Ignoring the sounds of the hunting party and paying no mind to Volstagg’s protestations, Loki flapped his wings, and rose into the sky.

It took time and effort for the wolves to travel, but they outpaced the hunting party as effortlessly as Arne had predicted. Angrboda’s howl of challenge had produced no answer. They ran on, winding deeper into the trees, passing over game trails that criss-crossed like beacons in the cool, musty scent of the forest, keeping an ear tuned for the sound of the crow Loki had become. 

As they traveled they met creatures of all sizes, running mad with fear. Angrboda-wolf ducked and weaved through and around them as they ran toward her with their eyes rolling and mouths open, and Arne-wolf tossed them up over his back or ran on through them. They passed a great deer whose lungs had burst, and Arne-wolf stooped as he ran and tore its throat out, putting an end to its misery.

They paused for a moment on a ridge, sending out a call, and then turned to make their way down into a gully. A call of alarm came from the crow, and Angrboda-wolf’s quick senses tuned to what the crow’s sharper eyes had seen: a shape across the gully, half in shadow and half out. Wards and cantrips and half-uttered spells spun around it like a swarm of bees, distorting the view, and Angrboda-wolf’s hackles rose.

 _He suffers,_ Angrboda-witch whispered, and the aspect of the wolf melted away until she was herself once more.

“Hunvidr,” she called, and felt _rather than saw_ the shape turn and regard her. Arne-wolf growled a warning. “Hunvidr, come back. Return to us.”

The crow swooped down, and Loki stood beside her. “Can you bind him from this distance?” he asked, voice pitched low.

“He changes too quickly,” she breathed. Tears obstructed her vision, and she dashed them away impatiently. A stag, then a bear, then a wolf, never one shape but all shapes at once. Angrboda was aware, at the heart of the maelstrom, of Hunvidr, doubled in on himself and howling. 

Arne spoke through the throat of the wolf. “It is this place,” he growled, and his voice was full of gravel and thunder. “First your magic, now this. This is Asgard’s doing.”

“There’s precious little time for blame,” Loki said shortly, and they watched as the figure traversed along the ravine and down into the gully. He lifted his hand, and it glowed green with power. “I can dispatch him. We have healers…”

Angrboda lay her hand on his arm. “He changes too quickly,” she repeated. “We risk injuring him further if we interrupt the process. I will go to him. If I can slow the process, you must bring him down.”

“And if you cannot?”

Angrboda found that she wanted to kiss Loki, to smooth her fingers over his troubled brow and press her lips to the thin line of his. She could not bring herself to do it, standing that close to Hunvidr’s rage and pain, and so she turned away, and followed the line of a fallen tree down into the gully. 

_If I cannot,_ she thought to herself, _then I must be prepared to kill him._


	11. Across the Worlds

Angrboda met Hunvidr on the edge of a little brackish stream. He knelt, shaken, and attempted to catch water in hands that would not hold their shape. She could hear the buzzing of the power around him, and could smell a harsh, lightning-strike odor. He could not see beyond his own thirst.

She stepped down into the stream and, with a twist of her fingers, directed a little spout of water up and into the maelstrom around him. He sought it but lacked the power to draw it from the atmosphere, and a wounded howl escaped him.

Angrboda reached out. A malformed spell, attracted by her power, flung loose from the maelstrom and slashed her across the cheek before dissipating into the atmosphere. Another hurtled at her, and she unmade it with a motion of her hand. A ward came then, heavy and powerful. It caught her on the shoulder before she could react and knocked her back and down onto the sharp rocks that lined the stream bed.

The creature _Hunvidr_ bit off a cry. It lifted its head, now in the shape of a stag, and snuffed at the air, lips curling. Broad Jotunn shoulders pushed through the stag-form, and Hunvidr lifted his head. His lips formed Angrboda’s name, and he held out a trembling hand.

“I can’t,” he moaned, and even as he spoke his shoulders and arms sprouted the dense black fur of his bear-form. “I can’t stop it. Help me. I’m so thirsty.”

Another ward came at Angrboda. She lifted her arm and flung it into a nearby stand of debris. Wood fragments and chunks of rock and soil exploded, and Angrboda flinched as they pelted the ground around them.

Angrboda staggered to her feet. “Hunvidr,” she called, and dodged another cantrip as it whistled by. “Hunvidr, listen to the sound of my voice. We love you, my dear friend. Come back to us.”

The bear figure shrunk painfully down to a fox, which squealed and whined. The whole seething, terrible mass began to crawl downstream. Angrboda went after it, swatting at spells and wards as they detached and flew around her head. A cantrip cut across her thigh, and she missed a ward as it came hurtling toward her. A flash of green, and it veered off course and pelted into the mud. Angrboda spared a glance at Loki, who stood looking down into the gully. 

“Reach him,” he called, and plucked a cantrip out of the air to send it skittering along the rocks of the stream-bed. 

With Loki working lightning-fast, Angrboda was able to draw closer. Hunvidr was collapsed on the rocks, form shuddering as the magic that tortured him was picked apart. Stable for the moment; stable enough to draw into her arms. The remains of his magic howled around them, and she reached deep through rock and soil, and drew power up through the ground, through herself, and into the air around them. The spells and cantrips that buzzed and whirled around them were knocked loose, and faded into nothing more than the scent of scorched earth.

“Hunvidr,” she called, pushing the hair back from his forehead. He was gray and cold, and his eyes were sunken and unseeing. She could see, etched into his flesh, every tear and pull the uncountable transformations had caused. Without magic to heal him, sustain him, he was slipping away from her.

Arne came, and lay his head on the boy’s chest. He looked up, stricken. “His heart isn’t where it should be.”

Angrboda reached, with mind and spirit, and felt the spark of it, the rapid, uneven pulse of it, under his ribcage. She caught Arne’s hand and pressed it against his side. Arne groaned in disbelief and agony. “How can he live?” he breathed. “By the Spark, Angrboda, let him go.”

She pressed her lips to his forehead. “I can save him,” she whispered. “I can do it.” A conduit, a tool in the Builder’s hand: she would pull herself apart to save him. Angrboda reached deep, searching. The ground itself shuddered, reluctant; the air twisted and roared around them.

“Everything I am,” she breathed. “Everything I will be. Save him. Let him live. Unmake me, four-personed Builder; my life for his…”

At the center of it all, a breath. Hunvidr’s eyes focused on hers, and he pressed his trembling, battered hand low on her belly. “You can’t,” he said simply, and through his eyes she saw the quickening, her belly round with a child so beautiful and monstrous that she wept. _Not child,_ Hunvidr’s voice whispered into her mind. _Children._

Arne was speaking, shouting, and Loki was there, his face pale and sad, restraining the grieving Jotunn. 

Hunvidr’s voice weaved through her thoughts, anchoring her to him. _Three children, shrouded in destiny and purpose. The realms will fall, all save one, and your children’s children will devour the sun and moon. Harbinger of grief, I name you; mother of monsters._ The rapid, helpless roll of prophecy ended, and only Hunvidr was left, a last, sad smile etched on his waxen features.

The magic she had called forth came hurtling up and through her. She directed it into the very fabric of time, and drew them all between the worlds.

The world around them was shrouded in mist. They were in a young forest, strange and green. Loki gave a shout, and Angrboda felt his power arc around them. “I can only hold the portal open for a moment,” he gasped, and his face twisted with the effort. His eyes sought Angrboda’s. “We must not linger.”

Arne knelt beside Angrboda, and pressed his hand to the place that held Hunvidr’s heart. “It is time,” he urged. “There is nothing left of him to save. He is gone.”

“I will not take him back to Jotunheim,” Angrboda breathed. “I will not have him remembered like this, broken and discarded.”

“What is this place?” Arne asked.

“Somewhere on Midgard, three thousand years ago, give or take a century,” Loki muttered. The portal twisted and seethed, and he grunted. “Be fast, Angrboda.”

Her hands spun the air around them into matter. Her form twisted about her, and she gave over to the witch. Great antlers sprouted up from her skull as she worked; power etched deep grooves into the ground around her. Unneccessary were the robes of ceremony, the copper-banded antlers fashioned from a clever spell. There in that untamed, wild land, she called out to the Elements once more, and they listened, and spoke through her.

A tree of the Iron Wood twisted up from the ground as Angrboda panted into a hurricane wind and wept great tears. Its long and twisted roots crept forth, displacing the earth, wrapping around the body of Hunvidr and drawing him down into itself. The air around them ignited into flickering color.

“Stay,” Angrboda-witch spoke, and it was a voice unlike any they’d heard before, and her eyes glowed like twin flames. “Span the centuries and bridge the worlds, son of the Iron Wood.”

The wind failed, the lights faded, and the mist rolled along the ground. Angrboda’s form shifted, and she fell to the ground. Arne lifted her up, and together they all stepped through the portal.


	12. Across the Realms

The first thing Loki saw when he awoke was the vaulted, cloudless dome of the Asgardian sky. He was, he surmised, on the edge of a great crater. The ground in every direction had been disturbed: trees were felled, snapped apart in places, debris displaced by the impact. Arne lay to his left, unconscious, broad chest rising and falling evenly. 

Angrboda. 

He could not see her. Loki pushed himself to his feet, groaning softly. A noise in the distance, a thrum of awareness. He staggered to the edge of the cauldron and looked down into it.

Angrboda sat at the center, arms wrapped around herself. She did not answer when he called out to her nor when he slid down the side of the crater. He felt, as he approached, the displacement of air that signified she was working some spell.

The tunic she wore was torn, the leggings ripped and snagged. He caught glimpses of the flesh underneath as she moved; great contusions and bruises were forming on her pale skin. She had, he understood with a flash of inspiration, pushed through the portal first, and thrown himself and Arne to safety.

Loki spoke quietly. “You are injured,” he said, and held out his hand. He could feel the web of her magic pulse under his fingertips. “Angrboda. Let me help you.”

Her head swiveled in his direction, and her eyes were blank and unfocused. Her hairline was dark with crusted blood and gore. The sky overhead darkened, and Loki’s stomach dropped.

They had been gone too long. Days, weeks - long enough for the All-Father to summon Thor home from fighting and whoring and charming the inhabitants of whatever backwater world he’d been sent to police. Loki’s quick mind worked through the possibilities.

His next words were tinged with desperation. “Please,” he said, and drew the wreckage of his power around him. “Whatever spell you are working, you must stop now. My brother will strike without hesitation. I fear you are now an enemy here.”

The ground trembled beneath his feet, and he knew that, even in her distracted state, she had felt the threat growing around her. Loki worked quickly, unweaving the magic around them both, all the time seeking the spark of intelligence that still dwelt within her, hidden beneath despair and guilt and grief. She battled every move instinctively, pushing against him until, with one desperate thrust, she hit him with a ward so intense that it broke his hold and sent him flying back.

The roar of the wind, a shout, and white-hot lightning darted across the cauldron. It struck Angrboda at the moment Loki cried out in warning. She was bathed, incandescent, and her eyes focused on his in startled recognition before she was thrown off her feet.

Thor landed, courted by a roll of thunder. The hammer Mjolnir sang in his hand, and he stooped down and lifted a limp Angrboda up. “Fear not, brother,” he said, relief warring with the grim satisfaction in his face. “The witch will pay for her crimes.”

“Thor,” Loki cried. “Brother, wait.”

Mjolnir spun in his hand and they were gone.

In falcon form Loki could follow, and he flung himself into the air behind them. Thor outpaced him effortlessly, but his sharp eyes could see the form of his brother and Angrboda against the sky. On they flew, past the citadel and across the city.

Lightning flickered overhead, and Thor doubled his speed. The displacement of the air caused by Thor’s passing threw Loki off-course, and he battled for a moment, bewildered, before catching another current and continuing on.

They’d reached the Bifrost by the time Loki caught them, and he staggered along the rainbow bridge and into the Observatory on unresponsive legs. Thor stood, empty-handed, and watched as Heimdall closed the Bifrost.

“Where is she?” Loki breathed, shaken. “What have you done?”

“Thrown back to Jotunheim, by order of our father,” Thor replied. His stern face softened. “As retribution for her crimes she is exiled from Asgard and must bear the all-seeing gaze of Heimdall.” He squared his shoulders. “Brother, you look terrible.”

“She is injured,” Loki hissed. “Does our father’s justice include such neglect? She has committed no crime.”

Thor laughed in disbelief. “No crime? She leveled half of the forest, and the force of her passing cracked walls on the far reaches of the city. You’ve been gone for _weeks,_ Loki. Not even Heimdall could see you.”

Loki turned to look at the guardian. “What is she doing now?”

Heimdall turned his bright eyes toward Jotunheim. “She has returned to herself and is moving deeper into the Iron Wood, avoiding the approach of her people. She speaks. Do you hear her?”

Loki found that he could hear her, if he listened hard enough; he could make out the sound of her voice, words unintelligible, panicked. His heart beat raggedly, torn by the pain in her voice. “Heimdall…” he breathed.

Heimdall’s eyes were knowing, though his face betrayed nothing. “Crossing the bridge into Jotunheim is forbidden,” he said sonorously, “by order of the All-Father.”

“Crossing the…,” Thor began, and laughed again. So golden was he, so untouched by grief and trial, that Loki felt an old and familiar darkness stir in his troubled heart. “Loki would be sorely enchanted to yearn after an outlander witch.”

A moment, weighed in the balance. Loki ground his teeth together, and forced his mask into place.

“As you say, brother,” he muttered, and Thor’s laughing face tightened into concern.

“You are injured,” he said, and held Loki by the shoulder. Loki surrendered as Thor’s grip tightened, and his brother swung his hammer, and lifted them both into the air.

_Run. Hide._

If Angrboda had one thought during her passage from Asgard, it was that one. The Bifrost set her down in Jotunheim, on the eastern edge of the Iron Wood. She could sense the disturbance her arrival made and knew that it would be evident to others: friends, family, enemies. She knew not what had become of Arne, or Holmvidr, or Palni… she only knew that time had passed, and that she had failed Hunvidr, her friend, and that Odin had at last shown the fear that ruled his heart.

Why else the extreme prejudice, the Thunderer’s hand around her throat?

Laufey was her enemy. Odin was her enemy, and she knew not whether she could trust her people to offer her succor.

_Run. Hide._

The urgent whisper grew, tightening her lungs and setting her heart to thump. 

_Run. Hide._

Angrboda pressed her hand over her womb. Just there, on the edge of consciousness, a flicker of life.

_Run. Hide._

Angrboda ran.

She moved fast, throwing what wards and tricks of shadow and light she could manage behind her. She could hear the warriors of the Iron Wood behind her, calling out: Northern Jotnar, Hunvidr’s kin, pressing hard in pursuit.

Angrboda lay down curses as she ran, spitting venom until her face blackened with it. _I curse you, Odin. I curse you, Laufey, and your old men’s game of war. I rue the day we left Jotunheim for Asgard._

_Oh, Loki…_

Each footfall carried her deeper into the Iron Wood, past the places where generations of Jotnar worked and harvested and tamed, and into the wild places, where the branches of the trees hung thick with moss and twisted low over the ground. Through them she weaved, casting a web of magic so thick that the air grew tight. Her efforts slowed her progress, and she could hear the footfalls of Holmvidr’s kin behind her.

Angrboda turned and stood.

The first Jotunn stepped forward and fell to the force of a ward, shoulder broken in two places. The others stood at bay, swords drawn and shields raised. “Why do you hunt me?” Angrboda demanded.

A woman stepped forward. Her eyes glittered fiercely. _Skadi,_ Angrboda’s mind supplied. _Kinswoman to Holmvidr; cousin to Hunvidr. Huntress of the Northern clan._

“Only the frightened or the guilty run,” Skadi replied. Her hair hung in long ropes over her shoulders, and her teeth, stained with mergr root, were strong and even and sharp. “Which are you, Angrboda?”

“Leave this place,” Angrboda demanded, and let her power crackle along her fingertips. “Leave me be.”

“Our kinsman desires your presence,” Skadi said, unfazed by the demonstration. Her arrows were sharp, and she had a sharper aim. “When you did not return, when he felt Death grip his last living son, he took up the mantle of Speaker.”

“Do you support this betrayal, daughter of the North?”

Skadi smiled. “Only the frightened or the guilty run, child of the East, and there is no room for either in the Great Hall.”

“I did not kill Hunvidr. I tried to save him,” Angrboda breathed. “His magic overwhelmed him. He was suffering. Others were in danger.”

Skadi’s lip curled, and she fitted an arrow to the string of her bow. “Your magic will only last so long. Already it bleeds forth from a hundred places.” Her red eyes scanned the air between them, and she smiled. “I need only wait.”

Angrboda swayed, and stumbled. She could feel the power of the land beneath her, frozen and faint. It sang like a distant voice, soft on the wind, clear at first breath and then fading into nothingness. Angrboda reached deep, as deep as she had on Asgard, and the force of it cracked the frozen ground.

Skadi’s arrow struck the barrier and fell useless to the ground. Angrboda pulled at the heart of Jotunheim, hard, and the world erupted in chaos.

“What are you doing?” Skadi cried, as a surge of power caused the ground to shift and buckle. The great roots of the surrounding trees erupted from the ground, recoiling from the onslaught. Trees tipped and fell as the ground rose between them.

Angrboda-witch rose from the wreckage, eyes blazing. “Between the north and the east a new clan will rise,” she intoned, and her voice was dissonant and broken, like a cracked bell. “Children of the Wolf: Ragnarok will come on their heels. All the realms will hear their call. The sun and the moon will shine between their jaws and all will fall into darkness.”

A great wind picked up; fires broke forth from the open ground like torches set to burn, and Skadi could hear the sound of water gurgling deep in the firmament. Angrboda was at the center of it, glowing, and Skadi’s proud, loyal heart pounded. This was power, greater than that of grasping Holmvidr, deeper than cold Laufey’s. This was, she realized, _Jotunheim._

“Fall back,” she ordered her kinsmen, and they obeyed on legs that trembled and buckled. Her bow and quiver she lay down, and knelt on the shuddering ground. “Return to Holmvidr. Tell him what you saw here.”

Her kinsman, Trygve, called out. “Lady, you cannot stay here.”

Skadi smiled. “Watch me do so.” She held out her arms to the blazing witch. “Sister,” she called, and shivered under the weight of Angrboda’s gaze. “I am yours.”

Angrboda could see through the haze of magic the glowing heart of Skadi. She could see the Northern Jotnar retreat, could feel the ground sigh with their passing. The power in her retreated, seeping back into the ground, and she fell with it, unable to hold herself up any longer.

Skadi retrieved her bow and quiver and stepped through the ruin into the circle. She gathered Angrboda up, aware of the sudden swell of Angrboda’s belly. It pulsed under Skadi’s curious hand. “It seems you have a story to tell, sister,” Skadi murmured.

Angrboda’s hand was cold over hers. “He is powerful,” she breathed through pale lips. “Jotunheim loves him. Help me to keep him safe.”

“With my life,” Skadi swore, and lifted her up.


	13. In Dreams

Loki could not sleep without dreaming. 

The wounds from the fight with Hunvidr healed quickly. His power and strength returned to him effortlessly, yet still his skin was drawn and pale and his eyes were dark and hollow. The most pleasant dreams came from Memory, where he found himself wrapped around Angrboda, or skimming across the skies with her in falcon form. Other dreams, he surmised, came from the Present, or deep from the well of his own imagination. In those dreams she was tortured by the pains that gripped her, held at the mercy of a faceless Frost Giant, or hounded by a pack of wolves. He woke panicked from those dreams with her heartbeat echoing in his ears, guilty and angry and helpless. He spent long hours at his books, searching for a way between the worlds.

Frigga found him one morning, brooding. She dismissed her women and sat beside him, tidying away the scrolls and pages that littered the floor around him.

“You worry about her,” Frigga said softly, when at last he uncurled himself enough to look at her. 

“It is as if my words fall short. She is not listening. I can hear her, but she does not respond when I call out to her.”

“Perhaps she is unable to hear,” Frigga said. “The distance between the realms is vast, my son. She has managed to shield herself from Heimdall’s view; it is reasonable to assume that her efforts are blocking your attempts to reach her.”

“I cannot forget her, as Thor does his women,” Loki spat, and his face was dark and guilty.

Frigga lay her hand on his cheek. “Do not compare yourself to your brother,” she chided gently, in the patient tone of one whose lesson has been oft repeated and with great love. “You give him little credit. Thor loves easily and frequently, and finds it easy to release what he has found. You have always been the opposite.”

 _And love and friendship have been all the rarer for it,_ Loki thought bitterly. He shook his head.

Frigga reached into her robes and withdrew a bell. “My women found this in Angrboda’s room. She wore it in her hair, did she not?”

“I assumed she must have taken it with her,” he replied, eyes wide. The room, when he finally reached it, had been stripped bare and all of her belongings returned to her people on Jotunheim. It had been foolish sentiment that prompted him to leave it behind that morning, and he had since sorely regretted relinquishing an object that would have aided his efforts to reach her.

“It seems as if it wanted to find you,” Frigga said knowingly, with a touch of the whimsy that had so enamored his heart as a child.

He took the bell and allowed her to kiss his cheek.

“Sometimes all we need is a little pull in the right direction, Loki.”

_Across the realms Yrsa went,_  
_Spear in hand and shield twice rent -_  
_On the heels of Laufey spent_  
_Over the plains of Ida…_

Skadi’s voice was low and rhythmic, words bit short in time with the meter of the song. She accompanied herself with the beat of her hand against the cradle-board she carved, and she smiled to see Angrboda watching her.

Holmvidr himself had come to the edge of the wild; had spoken through his grief about the news from Asgard. Arne had returned, and had told the tale of Hunvidr’s final hours. Holmvidr had spoken at length about recompense, and Skadi had suffered long moments until Angrboda had at last nodded, and yielded her political power to Holmvidr.

Skadi cared little for politics. She cared for honor, and loyalty, and the challenge of the hunt. Joining Angrboda had loosened the yoke of her clan enough for Skadi to slip through, and follow a leader _she_ deemed worth following. She could hunt where she liked, and when she liked, and keep the spoils of her efforts to feed herself and Angrboda. Let Laufey or the Northern clan come to claim their portion. She would be waiting.

“You are awake,” Skadi noted, and set aside her work to draw closer to the low bed where Angrboda lay.

“Who is Yrsa?” Angrboda asked weakly. 

“A brave warrior,” Skadi replied, and held a rag drenched with water to Angrboda’s lips, so that she could drink slowly. “She followed Laufey to Midgard and then marched with his company to the Sky Citadel.”

Angrboda lay her head back and studied the woven dome of their shelter. It had taken a day for Skadi to build the frame, and much of Angrboda’s strength to coax the branches of the nearby trees into cooperating. They wove through and along the frame, pressing tightly together, until the little hollow was warm and snug. It was hidden from view by Angrboda’s spells, and Skadi had taken great pains to ensure that each journey to and from the dwelling was invisible and protected with wards.

Skadi sometimes wondered if it were worth it, and if Odin All-Father truly cared enough to cast his gaze toward Jotunheim. She wondered, and often thought she knew, whose child Angrboda grew in her belly.

“What happened to her? To Yrsa?”

Skadi bared her teeth. “A sword pierced her side, yet she fought on until Asgardian bodies lay thick around her. Ida was soaked through with their blood. Through it all she praised her spear and shield until they glowed with a fearsome light that blinded her enemies.”

“Did she die?”

“They say that Odin’s great spear itself, Gungnir, hesitated before at last running her through.”

“And do you think I will lead you across the Plains of Ida, Skadi?” Angrboda asked wearily.

“I will follow wherever you lead.”

Angrboda turned her face to the wall. She was tired, so tired, and a voice called out to her from a distance. “I have seen Gungnir,” she said, and trembled. Her hand splayed over her belly. 

Skadi looked through the low door of the dwelling. Night spilled over the Iron Wood. “Your strength will return. You must not lose courage. Sleep now, sister.”

It was simpler, with the bell in his hand, to project himself across the realms. He was little more than a shadow at first, but Loki found that with practice he could travel over the landscape of Jotunheim. He avoided the places that were heavily-populated, skimming over them with the speed of thought, and flitted through the Iron Wood. He could feel the link between them, the pulse that echoed through his dreams, orienting him like a magnetic pole.

Though she was weary, sleep eluded Angrboda. She lay, eyes trained on the fire. It burned low as Skadi slept, her breathing rhythmic and steady, a soft counterpoint to the sounds of the hearth. Those things together were enough to soothe her most fitful nights, and yet she lay awake, and watched the flames, and the little patch of sky that showed between a break in the branches over the door.

She thought, not for the first time, of Loki, and her hand crept to her breast where the amulet he’d given her lay. She whispered to it, when Skadi could not hear, of secrets and dreams and sorrows, of hopes and fears and tender longing, until it grew warm from her touch.

A noise on the threshold alerted her, though the doorway stood empty. Angrboda looked to the sleeping Skadi, and back again. A shimmer, and Loki stood in the center of the room, blinking owlishly, as one who has been plunged from the light into sudden darkness. His figure wavered like a candle flame, and then steadied and came into focus.

 _Clever boy,_ Angrboda thought, and felt a surge of pride.

The little shelter was dark, lit only by the fire from the hearth. Loki perceived that a Jotunn woman lay near the door, sleeping soundly. Angrboda lay on a low bed near the back of the shelter, eyes glowing. She did not speak, but lifted her arm to beckon to him, and Loki despaired at the way she trembled.

Words failed him. “You tremble so,” he breathed, when at last he could, and anyone listening would have heard little more than the wind in the trees and the sound of the little nighttime insects that burrow deep into the Iron Wood trees. “You are ill.”

Angrboda smiled. “I am only tired,” she said quietly. “I can rest in this place, with Skadi to help me.”

“You cannot trick a trickster, darling,” Loki said, trying for levity and feeling himself fall short. “This place is wound through with magic so tightly that it must be difficult to breathe. Why do you hide?”

She could not tell him. She thought instead of Skadi.

“The guilty hide,” she whispered, and found truth in the telling. Tears glittered in her eyes.

Loki’s shadow knelt beside the bed, and his hand lifted, as if to brush the hair back from her forehead. She did it for him, and he smiled.

“Hunvidr made his choice,” Loki soothed. “Do him the honor of accepting it.”

“He professed his love for me,” she replied. “If I had been kinder, perhaps he would live still. I think over his last moments again and again. If I had found a way…”

Loki strove to speak with a certainty he was only beginning to feel. “He would not appreciate your dismissal of his agency in this. You forget,” and his voice dropped with the weight of as much confession as he was willing to give, “I was there. It is your own disordered and weary mind that causes you grief, and not Hunvidr’s spirit. He is undoubtedly as generous in death as he was in life.”

Angrboda knew of Loki’s powers of persuasion, yet she closed her eyes and let his words filter through, allowing them to dispel doubt and guilt. Angrboda-as-she-was would have fought it, but Angrboda-at-that-moment could feel the wisdom in his suggestion. She closed her eyes, and felt as if she’d aged centuries.

Loki leaned over her and whispered soft incantations. His shade grew pale around the edges, and Angrboda felt the whisper of his magic as it seeped under her skin and bolstered her own. “You should never have been sent from Asgard,” he said quietly, and leaned back as she sat up. He watched hungrily as she ran her hands over her hair and drew it over her shoulder. “I went before the All-Father and told him what happened in the forest.”

Angrboda kept the furs drawn up over the telling swell of her belly. “And did it change anything?” 

“He believes that your proximity to the Casket awoke something within you, something that has been sleeping in the generations born since the War. He is even more resolved that the Casket stay on Asgard, despite the words of the politicians.”

“Then we have failed, and my people will suffer for it.” Angrboda said quietly, and shook her dark head in remorse.

Loki’s voice was sure. “Asgard will honor the treaty laid down by the council, and your kinsman works to build trust. He will lay the foundations upon which we will build once my brother takes the throne.”

So earnest was his face, so open and eager, that Angrboda smiled. “Will you remember Jotunheim when you rule through your brother, Loki?” she teased, and knew from the lack of expression on his shade’s face that across the realms he had found the grace to blush.

“I cannot forget Jotunheim,” Loki said. His voice was low and warm, and his pale, strange eyes were compelling. He surged forward, close enough to kiss, and Angrboda’s eyes drifted shut automatically. “I cannot forget you.”

She had spent a fair share of time remembering, and she opened her eyes and grinned to observe the intensity and hunger of his expression.

The flicker of his reflection indicated that his power was waning. Loki frowned. “I long to touch you,” he confessed, and his face constricted, as if it had cost him something to tell.

“That will give you a reason to come back,” Angrboda replied softly, scanning his features, “and motivation to find a better way.”

Loki’s eyes brightened at the challenge, and he smiled. “I will see you soon, Angrboda,” he said, voice rich with promise.

Angrboda lifted the little carven figure to her lips. “I count on it, my love,” she whispered, and his shade faded away, taking with it the sudden exhilaration that graced his features.

She sat and studied the fire for a long while before Skadi spoke from her bed. “You did not tell him about the child.”

The swell of her belly was warm and tight under Angrboda’s hand. “No,” she breathed. “That is a story for another time, Skadi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear reader, for your time.


	14. Epilogue

A great rumbling came from the north, and the ground shook. Animals fled from the Iron Wood, heading south and toward the great sea.

The veil of the evening sky was split with a distant light.

“Utgard has fallen,” the messenger panted. His hands, as large as shields, splayed upon his knees. “Asgard has turned the Bifrost upon us.”

Angrboda’s hands curved protectively around her belly. The child inside kicked. 

“Laufey-King?” 

“Gone.” The clamor of alarm, the noise of the People, pressing in at the door, fell silent. The only sound was the logs in the central fireplace burning, and the ragged breathing of the Frost Giant.

A groan went up from the yard; the enormous beast that had carried the giant over miles and miles kicked feebly one last time and died.

“Prepare the People,” Holmvidr, Voice of the Assembled and leader of the Northern clan, called. His kin hurried to obey. “Have anyone with a shred of magic in them meet us at the Northern border of the Iron Wood.” He indicated the Frost Giant. “Give this one shelter and care. Gather a group of our people; have them take the oldest and youngest to the shores of the sea. Beg sanctuary from Aegir and tell him many more will come, from Utgard and from the Iron Wood.” 

Skadi, huntress and adviser and sometimes friend, whispered in Angrboda’s ear. “Your time draws near, sister. You have been in labor all day. We should not have come here.”

“They cannot stand alone,” Angrboda retorted. Pressure and lancing pain grasped her, and she gave a low groan. Despite her magic, despite all her craft, she could not stop her body from preparing itself for the birth of the child she carried. She clutched at the figure hung around her neck and staggered upright, leaning heavily on Skadi’s arm. _Loki,_ she thought. _Why?_

Refugees from the Northern edges of the Iron Wood poured past the shield wall, grasping children and elders. The strongest stopped and joined the wall, their eyes cast back toward their fleeing kin.

Torchlight, cut through by the eerie light of the Bifrost, threw dancing shadows into the forest. Angrboda turned to look at Holmvidr. He stood, beard tipped toward the sky, and smiled as he felt her gaze upon him. “I did not think I would stand and die with you, Angrboda,” he said sonorously. “I should have known Asgard would prove false. The Elements spoke through you that day; the vision you shared has come to pass.”

“Your son would encourage you to have hope,” Angrboda said staunchly, and ground her teeth as another pain took her. 

Holmvidr raised his sword, and a drum beat in the distance. Another joined it, and another, striking in time with one another until the very trees seemed to sway with the rhythm. 

The heartbeat of the Iron Wood. It quickened and grew in volume, overtaking the roar of the approaching Bifrost, bearing Angrboda through the end of her contraction. Her belly, grown iron hard, relaxed.

“Now!” she cried out, and reached deep.

 _Loki,_ she wept soundlessly, as the power pulled up through the soles of her feet. _Loki, where are you? What is this treachery? Oh, our son…_

Energy, drawn from the roots of the Iron Wood itself, poured up and through the wall of people. They were conduits, vessels; lost to a greater purpose, they used their gifts to channel what the Elements gave them and send it spiraling up into the air. A great silver shield curved over the Iron Wood, held aloft by the strong arms of the gifted. Those who could, those who fought with sword and shield and spear, gave a migthy cry.

The terror came forward, rushing now, destroying all before it and cutting a deep swathe in the land. The ground shuddered as the Bifrost roared, and through her pain and fear Angrboda knew it was hopeless. Another contraction took her hard, and, born up by the power coursing through her, she sobbed out Loki’s name through her grief and pain.

A moment, a flash of awareness, and then loss as vast as the night sky...

Distantly, she heard Holmvidr calling out to his kinsmen. The world dissolved into light and noise, and then…

Silence.

The Bifrost was gone. The shield wall collapsed, and the People searched the sky, reaching out sightlessly to link arms and join hands with their loved ones. Angrboda fell to her knees, hard, hands clutching her belly. The ground groaned in sympathy. Hands caught and held her, rubbing slow circles on her back. A woman of the southern clan knelt with her.

“Is it time, little mother?” the woman asked, and reached out to press cool touches on Angrboda’s belly and between her thighs. She looked up at Skadi and the women standing with her. “The baby is eager to be born on the field of battle. Get her up. He will come soon.”

“No,” Angrboda groaned. “The Bifrost… should it return…”

Unhearing, the women lifted and arranged her. Her head tipped up, searching the stars, and gentle hands coaxed it back down as another spasm took her.

“He comes quickly,” the southern woman whispered, and strong arms braced against her, bearing Angrboda up as she bore down.

And so Fenrir, the dread monster, was born into the wake of chaos and fear. The women wrapped his little body in a length of linen torn from a skirt and presented him to his mother.

He was beautiful. Angrboda’s entire world narrowed to the quiver of his lip as he drew a deep breath and wailed. Hair as dark and as fine as his father’s covered his head. Each tiny, delicate finger and toe was a perfection.

“The father?” the southern woman murmured, turning to Skadi, who shook her head.

Angrboda knew but would not say; had seen it in vision through the terror of the Bifrost. 

Loki, torn by grief and despair, had fallen.

The Iron Wood became a refugee camp. What resources were afforded by the desolate land were stretched thin before word came from Asgard that Odin All-Father himself was coming to bring aid to the people of Jotunheim.

Angrboda felt the blood in her veins run cold at the news, and the child at her breast wept, and was inconsolable. She looked around the small home she had come to occupy with Skadi, and at the scant belongings she had salvaged before making way for the wandering refugees from the North.

“We cannot stay here,” she said softly, and the baby warbled. “The All-Father will see you and want you for his own.” She traced the clan markings on his forehead. His father’s brow had been unfurrowed, and yet the babe was as marked as any Jotunn child. “With your father gone only I can protect you.”

The figure that hung around her neck, tied safe with a length of unending cord, was smooth under her anxious fingertips. “Loki,” she whispered, and her eyes were full of her child, “do not judge me harshly. I do what I must.”

The figure did not warm and twist under her hands; it did not whisper to her in Loki’s voice. There was only the sound of the wind, and of the meager fire in the pitiful little hearth. The child suckled, content, and Angrboda cradled him, and pressed tender kisses to his smooth, soft skin.

Skadi, huntress of the Northern people, traced Angrboda through the forest. The witch moved quickly, with one eye forward and one behind, and runes and wards shimmered in her wake. The weather did not care about the All-Father; it did not care that Angrboda was alone in a wood made strange and dangerous by an influx of desparate creatures. It howled around Skadi’s shoulders; it beat at her head and chest and limbs, and pushed against her as she navigated the frozen forest.

The scents of Angrboda and the child were muddled and distant, and Skadi worked to dismantle spells that had been set to mislead and protect. Once, the scents of the woman and child had altered, and Skadi’s heart had clenched. Angrboda had taken wolf-form, and altered the child along with herself. It was a dangerous thing, and forbidden, for a child changed so early would quickly grow accustomed to the aspect. Grief and fear had twisted her reason.

The All-Father had come, twisting dark magic into a gateway so intricate that it had hurt Skadi’s eyes to see. Ancient Ulf, elder of the Eastern clan, had come with him, bearing the Builder’s Tool in his outstretched arms. The wreckage caused by the Bifrost had been corrected, and the promise of a brilliant spring lay under the thin ice. The pulse of power released by the Tool spread slowly in every direction from the Iron Wood, healing as it went.

It was, for those who could forget the carnage, the answer to a prayer.

Skadi knew that Angrboda moved so quickly that she would have been unaware of such a change. Her mind and soul, bent to survival, focused on hiding, would not have felt the stirring of spring in the land she loved. Panic-stricken, driven by the urge to protect her child, she pressed deep into the remaining vestiges of Jotunheim’s eternal winter, and did not spare the time to look over her shoulder.

Angrboda-Wolf lay on her side, making way for the pup. He was hers, all hers, and she sighed contendedly as he suckled. Magic hung heavy around this place. Her Jotunn form had found it, had used clever fingers to hide it, and line it with moss and leaves. She knew what the wolf knew: special precautions would have to be made, for they were isolated. There was no pack to help raise the young wolf, to bring meat into the den for the mother, and so Fenrir had two mothers, one to think and plan and nurture, and one to feed and protect.

A noise came from outside of the den; a rush of power stirred the pine needles scattered around the entrance. Something niggled at the back of the wolf’s mind; something important. She lifted her head and rolled to her feet, displacing the pup. He complained, deep in his little throat, and she pushed him down into the nest and slipped out of the den.

A woman stood before the den, wrapped in glamour. The wolf, eyes unwavering, lowered her head.

The woman smiled softly. “Angrboda,” she said quietly, and it was enough, in the pale light of the morning, to draw her out of wolf-aspect and into her Jotunn form. She stood, trembling, no less dangerous, and showed her teeth.

“All-Mother,” she said. The sun was rising at her back; she could feel its warmth through the thin gown she wore. Life-bringing spring spread out behind Frigga; the trees had begun to bud. “You herald the spring.”

Frigga, far-seeing, smiled. Far from the noise and thrum of Asgard, Angrboda could feel her power: compassionate, fierce, armored and helmed and warmer even than the sun on her back. Angrboda felt her own power bristle. 

Frigga’s voice was soft. “Is the child well?”

Angrboda growled, and allowed the power bristling at the edges of her awareness to surface. 

Frigga laughed softly. “We deserve that,” she said. “You are afraid and grieving, though you know not why.” Though her voice was strong, her face was a picture of sorrow. “Loki has fallen.”

Angrboda had known it in her heart. So sympathetic were they that she could not help knowing. A pair of ravens croaked from the branches of a nearby tree. “My son cannot take his place.”

The sunlight turned Frigga’s hair to gold as she nodded. “There is none who can. I hope,” she said softly, and stepped forward. “I hope that we are wrong. He fell from the Bifrost and into nothingness, and there has been no sign, and yet…”

“Why did you attack Utgard?”

A muscle worked in Frigga’s jaw, and her gaze grew distant. “Loki unleashed the power of the Bifrost on Utgard. He was mad with grief and rage.”

Angrboda stepped forward, the better to see what she saw. “What caused such suffering?”

Frigga shook herself. The ravens croaked again, a chorus of warning, and Angrboda withdrew.

“Loki is our son,” Frigga said, “but not of our blood. His jealousy of his brother, his adulation of his father; when he discovered the truth it broke something inside.” She began to pace. “He thought to curry favor with his father, to prove himself more than his brother. When he learned that Laufey was his father...Oh, that we ever fostered such pain. I tried to tell him that it did not matter, that he was our son…”

Angrboda’s heart thumped in her chest. Her child: Jotunn twice over, and blessed.

“And so spring has come to Jotunheim, at long last,” Angrboda said softly. “It is as he said. He promised it would come. I saw it in the Elements, and believed him, and loved him.”

A breeze came from the north. Angrboda’s nose twitched. There was something on the wind; a familiar scent. Skadi. 

“There is not much time. A kinswoman of mine approaches.”

“May I see the child, before I go?” Frigga asked. “I would give him my blessing.”

“He is not Loki,” Angrboda whispered, and dread clutched at her heart. The creature before her was ancient, and powerful, and the weight of her compassion set Angrboda trembling. She looked from Frigga to the ravens, Thought and Mind, perched high in the tree and waiting to take word to Odin All-Father.

“No,” Frigga said gently, and the armor and helm she wore shimmered, and were gone.

A sob broke in Angrboda’s throat, and she called out for the child. “Fenrir. Cherished one.”

He tumbled forth, eager, toddling on little puppy legs. The power of the wolf had grown within him, as Angrboda feared it would, but he had grown strong in the months since his birth, stronger than any Jotunn babe. He needed to be strong. _She_ needed him to be strong.

“Oh,” Frigga said softly, and bent, and lifted him up. Tears stood out in her eyes, and Angrboda felt a wave of grief mingled with joy so strong that she swayed where she stood. “Fenrir.” His aspect shimmered, altered, and her baby lay naked and laughing in Frigga’s arms. “So like his father,” she breathed, and pressed her lips to his forehead. They lingered, and the baby sighed, and caught a handful of Frigga’s golden ringlets.

“Please,” Angrboda wept, and held out her arms. “Please give him back to me.”

Frigga’s face was calm. “Fear will rule your life if you let it, Angrboda,” she said gently. Fenrir sneezed and was Fenrir-wolf once more. Frigga gave him a final kiss and lowered him to the ground, and her eyes fixed on Angrboda as she faded from view. “Do not allow fear to rule your life.”

Huginn and Muninn, the ravens, lifted into the air. They circled the clearing on great, black wings, and then were gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an attempt to reconcile Loki's relationship with Angrboda and his monstrous children in the framework of the MCU. It takes place in the years before the first Thor movie.


End file.
